


Finding Equilibrium

by Alliterative_Albatross



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Camping, Caring Scrooge McDuck, Christmas Morning, Episode: s01e22 The Last Crash of the Sunchaser!, Explosions, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Scrooge McDuck, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scrooge has a lot that he needs to say to webby, Uncle-Niece Relationship, Volcanoes, hard conversations, team uncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-09-18 00:25:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: This year, Scrooge is giving Webby the Christmas gift of a lifetime - a solstice spent on the mysterious island of Quackatoa. But when disaster strikes, Scrooge is forced to reassess his definition of treasure. Adventure, angst, hurt/comfort, and plenty of Uncle Scrooge and Webby bonding!





	1. Chapter 1

The morning before everything changes, Scrooge pulls the little diary out of his greatcoat pocket and slides it surreptitiously across the tablecloth as Webby lays out his nutmeg tea.

“Oh!” Webby gasps, just managing not to spill tea in Scrooge’s lap. She takes her book in her hands, clutching it to her chest and then whirling to round on Scrooge. Her eyes are narrowed into an expression of deep suspicion. “Where did you find this?” she asks softly, something sharp and guarded in her tone.

Scrooge laughs. “Ahh, lass, left it on the garage floor, ya did.” Scrooge nods toward the adjacent chair, motioning for Webby to sit down. “I just took it for safe-keeping, is all.”

Webby nods, then sits like she’s been asked. Scrooge notices that she lays the book in front of her as she does, though she is careful to keep her fingers clamped tight over the cover, the cover that Scrooge knows for a fact reads _The Secret Files of Webbigail D. Vanderquack,_ and then, as a small addendum, _Violators will be hand-fed to Ammit._

Something about the closed off, betrayed expression on this little girl’s face rubs Scrooge the wrong way. Maybe he shouldn’t have read her journal. He sighs, leaning forward to pour a half glass of Webby’s favorite apple juice.

Webby takes it with a silent nod of thanks.

“Webbigail,” Scrooge leans toward her, eyes twinkling, doing his best to get her engaged. “How’d you like to have your Christmas present a bit early this year?”

Webby’s eyes widen, an expression that makes Scrooge cringe. He’s not forgotten the many awful Christmas presents that were offered to Webby during her early years of living at McDuck Manor. He’s ashamed to admit that he’d never paid much attention to 22’s tiny granddaughter. His earliest memories of Webbigail are of a quiet, dark-eyed duckling who’d stared unabashedly at him in solemn scrutiny. In fact, she’d made him so uncomfortable that Scrooge had often avoided her. Certainly, he’d given no thought to her Christmas; little Webbigail received what normal little girls should - dresses, dolls, a knitting set… Scrooge shakes the memories away. Now that those dark years are behind him, Scrooge is quite literally a different duck. He’s been proven well-wrong about Webbigail time and time again. Besides, Webby is family, and Scrooge is getting quite a bit better at celebrating Christmas with his family.

This year, he’ll prove it.

“Oh, I think you’ll like this one, Webby-lass,” Scrooge winks. He knows she will; after all, he’d read her diary. Scrooge had spent hours and hours convincing 22 only the night before. Their conversation had nothing to do with ‘would Webby like her gift;’ it was more centered around lots of careful planning to ensure that Webby survived it.

She would, of course. He’s Scrooge McDuck, and little Webby Vanderquack, well, she’s no liability herself.

Scrooge leans forward, lowering his voice to the hushed tone that he knows delivers the full effect of Mad McDuck, Adventure Capitalist. He can see by the way that Webby pulls closer, unconsciously echoing his stance, that it’s working.

“We’re spending the solstice on Quackatoa!”

Webby’s eyes are like saucers. They dart back and forth - to Uncle Scrooge, to the book, back to Uncle Scrooge again.

Scrooge stares her down. He’s been to Duat, twice, actually. Ammit is… well, not a friend, exactly. Scrooge knows he cannot be that bold. An ‘acquaintance’ is perhaps a better term.

A ravenously hungry, particularly violent acquaintance.

Still, Scrooge gazes into the little girl’s eyes, daring Webby to mention the contents of her diary, daring her to carve out his soul and feed it, chunk by chunk, to a depraved, razor-toothed, mythological hippopotamus.

After a very long moment, Webby seems to come to some decision or shake herself out of some dream. She fixes her stare again on Scrooge and echoes softly, “Quackatoa?”

Scrooge stands up and shoots her a mighty grin. “The Quackatoa, lass!” he shouts. “Jungle cats, volcanic shafts, machete-hewn trails to the top of the barren spine, camping at the base of Mt. Anak just as the sun sets on the twenty-first of Decemb- ooof!”

He’s cut off by a wing-full of babbling, bouncing little girl. Webby’s thrown herself right into his solar plexus, and Scrooge finds that he can’t even be annoyed to have had his breath stolen from him. She squeezes him hard, twice, gibbering a litany of ‘thank yous’ and ‘how’d you knows’ and ‘we need to get packing nows!’

Then, just like that, Webby steps back, takes a deep breath, and looks Scrooge in the eye. “Thank you, sir,” she says shakily. Scrooge can see that she’s trying for mature and serious, but the effect is completely ruined by her shining eyes and wild, wide grin.

“You’re welcome, lass,” Scrooge laughs, patting her on the shoulder and squeezing gently. “Now, why don’t you run along and find your gran? I think she’s packed a bag for you.”

“We’re leaving tonight?!” Webby screeches, and then she’s on the run again, clattering up the stairs in search of 22.

“We’re leaving after breakfast!” Scrooge calls after her, fondly rolling his eyes at her shriek of delight.

* * *

It works out nicely, actually.

Fergus McDuck had invited Scrooge and the kids for Christmas in Dismal Downs, and although the boys were keen to visit Castle McDuck, scheduling Webby’s Christmas present gave Scrooge the perfect ‘previous engagement’ to keep him from the majority of the family festivities. He and Launchpad would fly Donald and the boys to Castle McDuck, Scrooge would lean out the door of the Sunchaser, make his hasty apologies, and then they’d be off to the Indian Ocean and Quackatoa.

“Quackatoa?” Huey frowns as Webby explains that she and Uncle Scrooge won’t be arriving in Scotland until early on Christmas morning. “Isn’t that the most active volcanic island in the world?”

“Well, yeah,” Webby shrugs. Scrooge, observing from the guise of reading The Duckburg Daily Mirror, notices that she is both fully aware of the dangers and yet, completely unfazed by them.

Good lass.

“But it’s also the only island that a duck can hike right along the equator at the exact moment of the winter solstice,” Webby continues, scooting closer to show Huey the pages in her journal. “See, Lee McGraph was the last duck to complete the hike in 1882, just months before island’s eruption-”

“Yeah, Webby, the giant eruption that lasted six full months and resulted in over 35,000 deaths!”

Webby’s rolling her eyes now, shifting closer to Huey in a placating manner. “Huey, that was over a hundred years ago. It’ll be fine!”

“Yeah, over a hundred years ago, and the island’s been unstable since!”

Dewey carefully packs the glowing blue sphere he’d been fixated on into his backpack and turns his eager gaze toward his sister. “Webby, you and Uncle Scrooge are going on an adventure? To a volcano?”

Webby rolls her eyes. “Mr. McDuck and I -”

“Uncle Scrooge, Webby, please,” Scrooge interrupts from behind his paper. Blimey, but it drives him batty to hear Webbigail address him as ‘Uncle” when they are in private, and then revert to this “Mr. McDuck” nonsense when the boys can hear.

His heart clenches in his chest. It’s been over a year. He really should address that with Webby, and soon.

“Uncle Scrooge and I,” Webby starts again, shooting a glare in the direction of the man in question, “Are only going for the cultural experience of walking the equator at the moment of the winter solstice. There’s nothing more to it than that, guys.”

“Danger aside,” says Huey, thumping Dewey in the shoulder when he rolls his eyes, “I don’t understand why you guys are so set on going during the solstice. Wouldn’t the equinox be more appropriate?”

“Curse me kilts, lad; you miss the point entirely!” Scrooge stands, all pretense of reading or dozing abandoned. “Standing on the equator during the equinox would hardly be any different than standing in the supermarket parking lot during the equinox! It’s not special. Two nights from now, when the entire world is at it’s most topsy-turvy, Webbigail and I will be directly over the planet’s only apex of absolute balance. It’s like the eye in the storm, equilibrium in the midst of chaos, harmony amid entropy! Grand things are said to happen to the duck who looks to the heavens on that night.”

Scrooge finishes his speech and notices that once again, Webby is staring at him with unabashed hero-worship in her eyes. Scrooge takes a seat, shaking his head. That girl hasn’t a subtle bone in her body, but still, the sight of Webby’s enthusiasm makes his beak quirk into a grin.

“So, no treasure, then?” Louie pipes up.

“Nah, no treasure,” Webby answers him, shaking her head and screwing up her expression to one of mock-disgust. “Just a lot of hiking, backpacking, camping, and bug bites. Oh, and the distinct possibility of volcanic instability.” She shakes her head. “Not really your thing.”

Louie’s already turned back to his phone, sighing. “Meh. That’s a hard ‘nope’ from Louie Duck.”

“We figured,” Webby laughs as Dewey elbows Louie in the gut.

Huey ignores the ensuing tussle and fixes Scrooge with another scrutinizing look. “Just promise you’ll be safe,” he says seriously. “I’ve read about the volcanic activity in Quackatoa. Some of those geysers are spraying hazardous fumes, and the most recent surveys predict that the entire island is unstable.”

Scrooge kneels once again to wrap Huey into a one-armed hug. With the other arm, he reaches for Dewey, and then, with his index finger, calls Webby and Louie to the circle. Even Donald, half asleep in his seat, cracks a bleary eye open and stumbles to his feet. They all shuffle around beside Scrooge, and he allows them to them wait a moment as he looks them over, his family, his kids, all wearing expressions of varying degrees of excitement or dread or fear.

And blow me bagpipes, he’s never been prouder.

“Alright, McDucks,” he says sharply, assuming his role as clan leader and commander. It’s comical to watch all five of them straighten their shoulders and look him in the eye.

Scrooge likes that.

He continues on. “This is our second Christmas to spend together as a family,” he says, looking at them each in turn. His gaze lands on Webbigail, who quirks him a conspiratorial little grin. “I’ll not jeopardize that, not for all the gold, diamonds, or mysterious dark forces of the universe.”

Donald snorts a laugh, but his eyes are dancing.

He’s amused.

Scrooge finds that this is acceptable and moves ahead. “Webbigail and I have taken all reasonable precautions before embarking on our mission today. We are well prepared and well trained.” Scrooge bends at the knee, offering Webby his fist. “Aren’t we, Webby-lass?”

She winks at him, bumping his fist with hers and imitating an explosion.

“That’s not particularly reassuring,” Donald informs them with narrowed eyes.

Scrooge and Webby share a grin, and then Scrooge straightens, looking directly at Donald this time. “You have my word, Donnie,” he says softly. “There and back, no detours, no dawdling, no last-second switcheroos. Just a quick little jaunt to the equator, and then home to Mum and Dad’s just in time for steak pie.” Scrooge moves forward, offering his nephew his hand to shake.

To his surprise, Donald pulls him into a hug. “I know,” he says, and then, before Scrooge can react, the moment is over, and Donald is on his knees, addressing Webby similarly.

“Take care of our Uncle,” Scrooge overhears Donald say as he squeezes her shoulders tightly. “Bring him home in one piece!” and Webby laughs.

Satisfied, Scrooge wanders back to his seat in the cockpit, fully intending to catch the last bit of shut-eye available to him before their inevitable crash in the Scottish Moors.

* * *

It’s awfully quiet with the boys are gone and the turbines repaired.

Scrooge looks up to find Webby at his right shoulder. “You didn’t tell them about the buried gold,” she says hesitantly. Her voice is low, questioning, but not accusatory in the least.

Scrooge sits up properly now, removing his cap and looking Webby dead in the eye. “And I didn’t tell you about the buried gold either, lass,” he says sharply. “In fact, we don’t even know for sure if there is buried gold on the island, because the geography has changed quite a bit since -”

“Since Lee McGraph wrote his map,” Webby finishes for him, dropping a little scrap of canvas onto Uncle Scrooge’s lap.

Scrooge’s eyes widen, his fingers trembling as he pulls the pages apart. “Where’d ya get this, lass?” he breathes.

Webby crosses one foot over the other and leans back into the edge of Scrooge’s chair. She whips an old skeleton key out of her pocket and dangles it at the corner of Scrooge’s eye.

Scrooge recognizes it instantly. Just as he reaches for it, Webby tucks the key away into her pocket. “I’m not the only one leaving things where they might be found, Uncle Scrooge,” she says, fixing him with a knowing look. “You gave me access to the archives last year. I found the map and thought it might be something you’d be interested in. I took it, did some research, held on to it. When you booked us a trip to Quackatoa, I figured you must be after Lee McGraph’s treasure.” Webby sits down at the foot of the cockpit, breaking at least 23 airline safety codes, and grins up at Uncle Scrooge, the picture of a cool, confident negotiator.

She’s spent more time with Louie that I realized, Scrooge thinks. The discovery makes him a bit uncomfortable.

“Now then, let’s level with one another,” Webby says sweetly. “What’s the plan? Are we splitting up? Because I’m not missing my sunset just to go hoisting a shovel around in the jungle or cutting my way through the rainforest with a pocket knife.” Webby’s voice, which had been rising in excitement, falls now, and she looks at her feet in dejection. “I’m just here for the solstice, Mr. McDuck.”

Scrooge feels simultaneously that his breath has been stolen from him and his heart has been bruised. “Webby!” he gasps, reaching down to tip her face up to him. Webby returns his gaze reluctantly, dark eyes guarded, suspicious.

“Webby, lass, of course we aren’t splitting up,” Scrooge chokes, shocked by her sudden cynicism. “This trip is about me, you, and that solstice. It always has been, Webbigail, you must believe me.”

Webby’s eyes harden. She stares up at Scrooge, unfazed, unblinking.

Scrooge sighs, cursing every moment he’d ever given his little girl a reason to doubt him. “Alright, yes,” he admits, head in hands. “I knew about the McGraph legend, obviously. And yes, Webby, it did cross my mind when I saw your drawing of Quackatoa, but lass, I’m doing this for you. Not for diamonds or for treasures or even for my own adventures.” Scrooge takes Webby’s face gently into his hands and looks her dead in the eye. “I’m here to spend a holiday with my niece, a holiday that we’ve sorely needed together for a long, long time.”

Webby drops her gaze to her feet and nods.

“Webby.”

“Okay,” she whispers, then takes a deep breath. “Okay, Uncle Scrooge. I believe you.”

Then she smiles, that brilliant, bubbly smile that lights up the sun, and Scrooge can’t help smiling back.

Webby laughs. “I’ll even do you one better,” she says, reaching for the map that rests in his lap. She points to the middle, indicating the mountainous ridge that crisscrosses the island. “Solstice is on December 22 this year.” She slides her finger south, away from the volcano, pointing to the beach where Launchpad will drop them off. “We’ll be ready to hike back to the Sunchaser on the morning of the 23rd…” Webby trails off, angling her face so that Scrooge is forced to meet her gaze. “That gives us two full days.” She smiles up at him, twitching her finger to encompass the distance between the two points.

It’s not very far.

Scrooge feels the beginning of a grin twitching at his beak. “There’s no telling what we’ll stumble across in two full days,” he says slowly.

Webby’s eyes are absolutely glowing. “Exactly,” she says, taking the map and folding it carefully into her breast pocket. “We’re here for the solstice, Uncle Scrooge,” she says firmly. “But I’m not discounting spontaneous discoveries.”

Scrooge’s grin is impossible to contain now. Bless that Louie. He’s been a positive influence after all. He offers Webby a hand, “We have a deal, then, lass?”

Webby takes great delight in enthusiastically shaking Scrooge’s hand. “Absolutely!” she cries. “Just, not at the expense of my solstice.”

Scrooge looks her hard in the eye. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he swears.

* * *

It’s not long before they encounter another bumpy landing.

Webby steps out of the plane, shading her eyes with the palm of her hand. “It’s bright here!”

“Well, lass,” Scrooge grunts as he hoistings a rack-full of backpacks and camping paraphernalia from the cargo-hold of the Sunchaser. “You are very near the equator. The weather is warm, wet, and the bugs are a bit bigger than you’ll see at home. I hope you packed some spray.”

Webby giggles and holds the can proudly aloft. “Been preparing for this trip my whole life, sir!”

Ugh, there’s that ‘sir’ thing again. Scrooge is dead set on ignoring it this time. “Launchpad?” he shouts into the cockpit, “December 24, 2200 on the dot if you can manage it. I promised the boys we’d be home for Christmas breakfast!”

Launchpad leans his head down to make eye contact with Scrooge. “Aye-aye, Mr. McD. Ten pm sharp; gotta get a jump on those time zones. I’ll be here and waiting.”

Scrooge rolls his eyes. “Ach, no, Launchpad. Ya don’t have to sit here and wait with the plane. We’ve a radio, after all.” Scrooge waves his hands vaguely westward in the direction of Indonesia. “Go on, have a weekend off.”

Launchpad blushes, opening his mouth to protest.

“Nope, I’ll not have ya pining away here,” Scrooge taps his cane sharply in the dirt. “I’ve got my radio, my first aid kit, my handy cane, and beyond that, I’ve got Webbigail Vanderquack.” Scrooge clasps Webby’s hand and holds it aloft. “We’re the Dynamic Duo, we are! Take your time, lad, and have a good holiday on me for once!” Scrooge winks. “We’ll see you on the 24th.”

Launchpad makes no arguments. The plane roars to life with a sputtering of the turbines, and then, and just like that, the Sunchaser is gone, engines screaming as Launchpad waves back at them in the distance.

They are truly alone.

“I knew it!” Webby shouts, pumping her fists triumphantly in the air. “I always suspected that Launchpad had an Indonesian girlfriend. He’s headed west to go see her!”

Scrooge cocks his head and looks at this strange little girl who never fails to surprise him. “And how’d you work that out?” he asks, half amused, half afraid to hear her answer.

“Well, I can’t divulge all of my super top secret reconnaissance methods,” Webby answers slyly, swiping her pack from the pile at Scrooge’s feet.

Scrooge raises an eyebrow at her.

Webby sighs. “Okay,” she admits, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and anchoring it expertly to her hips to distribute weight and avoid prolonged nerve tension. “It’s not exactly a super top secret spy technique.” She looks up at Scrooge and grins. “I caught Launchpad and Dewey crashed on the sofa after a two day World of Warcraft marathon. He talks in his sleep is all.” She winks, grinning wickedly. “You can learn a lot from Launchpad if you know when to ask the right questions.”

Scrooge laughs for a good long time.

* * *

They come to their first steep ascent after about an hour and a half of hiking.

Well, trudging is the more accurate term. They’re headed vaguely north-east as far as Scrooge can tell, guided expertly by Webby, who proudly wields McGraph’s map. Occasionally, she’ll stop them with a tiny hand outstretched, then, delicately, she’ll unfold the little scrap of paper and consult it, fingers tracing, lips moving silently. Finally, with a look of fierce determination, Webby will glance upward, toward the sun, and all at once, they’re on the march again.

It amuses Scrooge to no end.

They take turns forging ahead, Scrooge because he’s trekked through the jungle before and knows how to handle a machete, Webby because she’s never trekked through the jungle before and has always desperately wanted to handle a machete. Scrooge takes a few extra minutes to correct her technique; a quirk of the wrist here, a finger hidden here, another tucked beneath the first.

After the first few hours, Scrooge notices that Webby’s fingers are beginning to blister, the downy feathers of her hands blood-soaked and molting. “Here,” he says after watching her wince as she readjusts her grip on the handle. “Try my glove.”

“But!” Webby cuts herself off as Scrooge holds it out to her.

Webby takes the glove in both hands. It’s several sizes too big and made of very fine leather that must be worth more than all the dresses in her wardrobe.

“Really?” she breathes.

“Of course,” Scrooge answers, kneeling to help Webby wrap the binding around her wrist and fingers.

Despite that the glove is hopelessly too big for her, Webby wears it proudly, and this time, when she takes the machete to the undergrowth, there’s a grin of savage delight on her face.

* * *

It’s late afternoon on December 21st when they first break free into the sunlight.

They are high enough now that the trees have given way to smaller underbrush and shrub, and the sun beats down on their shoulders, piercing and relentless.

Scrooge can see for miles.

He bends down, dropping his pack and motioning to Webby. “Up you get, lass!”

Webby doesn’t hesitate, just clambers deftly up his back to settle with her knees around his shoulders. Really, she should be too old for this, but this is their adventure, and Scrooge thinks Webby deserves to see the lay of the land.

“Wow,” Webby breathes as Scrooge obligingly shifts toward the edge of the rise. They’ve summited the southernmost point of the high ridge that winds its way around the island of Quackatoa. Once, before the great eruption, the island had been somewhat teardrop shaped, cut almost perfectly in half by the equator, but Scrooge can clearly see where the previous eruption had changed the shape of the land. Now, the island looks more like a crescent moon, with a long, rigid rise curving high over its back. Scrooge tracks it with his eyes. It runs in a vague sort of S shape around the center of the island, curling south, then flat to the west, and then, finally, spiraling north toward to sea and breaking off into one long, low, sloping mountain that Scrooge immediately identifies as the volcano.

“That’s it,” Webby breathes, raising her palm to her brow to see clearer. “That’s Mt. Anak, and this is the spine that aligns with the equator.” She laughs, and Scrooge is careful to grip her knees tighter so she doesn’t fall. “We won’t even have to get very close to the volcano.”

Scrooge grins at her enthusiasm, kneeling once again to allow Webby to clamber down from his back. He glances at her, then pulls out his pack and begins digging through it for the first aid kit. “Here, lass,” he calls. “We’ve got to get those hands seen to.”

“What hands?” Webby protests, and then, “Oh!” as she notices the blood and blisters on her once smoothly feathered fingers.

It’s a bit of an ugly injury, especially for a duck, but it won’t scar, not if Scrooge has anything to say about it. Webby watches him intently as he carefully unwraps his leather glove from her right hand. She only flinches once, when a particularly flimsy blister is dislodged by the binding, and Scrooge stops immediately, reaching to pour a bit of his canteen water over the wound. “It’ll sting a little,” he warns, and it does, but Webby only grits her teeth and bears it with minimal wincing.

There’s one other area, though, that needs addressing. Webby had been a bit too enthusiastic with a particularly vicious vine, and the vine had won, taking a bit of the skin of Webby’s leg with it. The bleeding has stopped by now, and the wound is small, but it’s quite deep, deep enough to require stitches.

“Think you can handle this?” Uncle Scrooge asks, cocking his head in Webby’s direction as he kindles a fire.

Webby nods. She’s settled down beside him, foot extended and flexed so that Scrooge has access to her inner knee.

Scrooge picks the driving needles out of the first aid kit and heats them over the flame. “Sterilizes them better than alcohol,” he clarifies when Webby’s eyes widen. “And it’ll help with the pain, too.”

“Okay,” Webby announces in a voice that hardly shakes at all. “I’m ready.”

It’s uncomfortable. Uncle Scrooge knows what he’s doing, that much is obvious. Webby watches him intently, half wishing she dared to ask where he’d learned to suture like that. Instead, she does her best to study his technique, how he only barely uses the needle driver to puncture the tissue, how the nylon winds delicately around the tips of the forceps with just a flick of his wrist until suddenly, there’s a set of three nice neat knots where the gash had been.

“All done,” Scrooge says gently as Webby lets out a relieved breath. “Just the alcohol left to do, now.”

Webby forces him to let her have that one. He passes her the bottle, impressed with her stoicism as she grits her teeth and pours the liquid over her wound with steady hands. That would have burned like hell-fire, he knows, but Webby endures it with silent grace.

Shaking his head at his fierce little girl, Scrooge carefully ties a cotton dressing around Webby’s leg. “All fixed up,” he announces as he stands, stretching and turning round to survey the landscape. It appears to be late afternoon, and by Scrooge’s calculations, they should have put nearly three kilometers behind them; less than he’d have liked, maybe, but given the intensity of the terrain they’d just scaled, not shamefully off the mark.

Webby bumps his elbow. “What are you thinking, Uncle Scrooge?” she asks, shading her eyes from the sinking sun.

“Well,” he answers slowly, turning to glance back at the hill they’d just summited. They’ve yet to encounter a safer place to make camp, so backtracking isn’t an option. Scrooge knows, too, that the sun falls quickly near the equator. Looking ahead, Scrooge can see that they have perhaps an hour of useable daylight left to them, at most. “Looks like we might be spending our first night here, Webbigail.” He turns to face her, and she’s frowning up at him.

She’s disappointed.

Scrooge sighs. “We’re not quite to the equator yet, lass, but we’ve still a whole day to get there.” Webby nods, contented by his answer, and Scrooge reaches around her to rest a hand on her wing. “Besides, I’ve got this nice, roaring fire started,” he teases. “What about seeing what you can rustle up for dinner, you mighty huntress!”

Webby giggles and gets to work, rummaging through her pack and dumping all of 22’s various paraphernalia onto the dusty ground until she discovers what she’s looking for. She holds a little styrofoam package aloft, squealing, “Hot dog!”

Ugh.

Launchpad had sent a pack of hotdogs for fun, so whether Scrooge likes it or not, dinner for the first night is hotdogs, before they spoil. Webby takes great joy in finding and whittling a pair of perfect roasting forks out of a low-hanging tree limb. She brings them back, holding them high in the air and saying “Look, Uncle Scrooge, we can have a hot meal now!”

Scrooge hates hotdogs with a burning passion, squashed, room-temperature Oscar Meyer’s with questionable origins and quality of storage even more-so, but Webby has already opened the package and is happily stabbing franks on her hand-carved roasting stick.

Scrooge sighs a very put-upon sigh, wishes for half a moment for an aviator with the taste of a proper adult, and then sets to work loading his own roasting fork.

* * *

Later that night, when the fire has died to embers and the bugs have finally settled, Webby scoots a bit closer to Scrooge.

“Can’t sleep, lass?” he asks, startling her out of her sleeping bag. He’d been wide awake as well.

Webby sits up and curls her knees over her chest. In the near-dark of the early morning, she looks very, very small. “I slept fine, Mr. McDuck, until just now,” she says in a voice that’s still a bit groggy. “I was just wondering what your plan was for dealing with the lowlands.”

Ah, the lowlands. Blast that little girl and her knowledge of McGraph’s map.

Scrooge sits up, joints creaking in protest. “Well,” he sighs, now that he’s finally contracted himself into a position that will allow him to look Webbigail into the eye. “I’d like to know what you think. This is your trip, lass, after all.”

Webby squirms a bit, then glances to her toes. “The easiest thing,” she begins after a long moment of silence, “Would be to travel straight across the spine. There are fewer trees here to block our view, less vegetation for us to hack through, and we’d probably make better time, even though it will add two kilos to our journey.”

“Go on,” Scrooge prompts. Webby had been thorough in her assessment of McGraph’s map, and he knows she has more to say.

“It’s just that,” Webby squirms her fingers so tightly that Scrooge is a bit afraid that she’ll reopen yesterday’s blisters. “Well, the spine is known for its unstable geysers, or at least, they were noted in the island’s most recent survey. It would be faster, certainly, but it could be dangerous.”

Scrooge sits with his arms folded in his lap and his left eyebrow raised.

“But the thing is,” Webby continues, faster and more confidently as she warms to the topic, “I don’t want to get lost in the jungle and miss my solstice. We’re right here!” she says, dropping her finger at the southern-most peak on the map. Then, concentrating hard, Webby stands, pointing eastward toward the curving edge of the spine. “Going down would be almost like backtracking.”

“It would,” Scrooge agrees stoically, not a hint of an expression on his face.

“And also,” Webby’s pacing now, really working things out, and it takes everything in Scrooge not to openly grin at her. “If we are near the solstice when we should be, it would be nothing, absolutely nothing to descend the north side with our shovels,” she finishes triumphantly.

Scrooge can’t help it; he’s properly beaming now. He stands, pulling Webby close to him, and points to the single visible star in the sky, resting low and faint on the horizon. “Do you know which star that is, lass?”

Webby scrunches her brow, pinches up her bill in concentration. “It’s got to be…” Scrooge hears her whisper. After a moment, she turns to him, and even in the dark, he can see the gleam in her eyes. “It’s Polaris!” she squeals.

“That it is, Webby-lass!” Scrooge thumps his niece proudly on the back and points northward, toward the star, toward the spine. “All travelers from the dawn of time have been guided to their adventures by the North Star, and I think she’ll do just nicely for us as well.”

Webby laughs, and then together, route decided, they each start packing up camp, completely unconcerned that morning is still hours away.

* * *

The second day is much easier. The sun is brighter and hotter on the spine, and there are fewer briars and bushes to clear through, fewer snakes to dodge, and fewer ginormous bugs to bat aside. The view is gorgeous, too; to their right, the ridge plummets sharply down into a set of dark, sharp cliffs that remind Scrooge of wolves’ teeth. To their left, the southern side of the island, the slope is friendlier, greener and much less steep, though a thick canopy of treetops blocks their view from about a third of the way down.

By midmorning, Webby has declared them officially trekking the equator.

Scrooge grins at her unadulterated energy. It’s high time that he tell that she will be picking out the solstice campsite.

“I’ll hold on to this, lass,“ he offers, gently pocketing the McGraph map. He waits until he has Webby’s full attention, then offers, “I want you to pick our spot for tonight.”

“Really?’ Webby asks, eyes shining.

“Without a doubt,” Scrooge tells her. “This trip was for you, Webbigail. Now go on, before twilight falls. I’ll be right here beneath this ficus tree when you’re through exploring.”

Webby doesn’t have to be told twice. She takes off like a shot. Scrooge watches out of the corner of his eye as she takes a careful assessment of the strip around them. The actual area of the ridge that lines up with the equator is about a mile and a half long and maybe a third as narrow. As long as the sun stays high in the sky, Scrooge can see Webby if he squints.

Webby takes her time. She circles the perimeter, murmuring to herself, beating back brush to get a full view of the area, then stepping back and squatting to appraise it. Then she moves on again, circling a little further this time, checking the stability of the rocks at the edge of the spine, cupping her hands and looking toward the sky.

Finally, nearly two hours later, Scrooge looks up from his book to see Webby racing back to him. Her hiking britches are scraped and stained at the knees, but she’s grinning ear to ear.

Scrooge pockets his book when he sees her coming.

“I found it!” Webby shouts just as soon as she’s within earshot. Scrooge stands up, jogging forward to meet her. “I found it!” she announces again as she reaches for his hands. “Come on, come on, you’ve got to see this! It’s incredible!”

Scrooge knew it would be. He’d already re-packed the camp for them. Together, they hoist their backpacks over their shoulders and then Scrooge allows himself to be dragged behind Webby, hand in hand, to see the new campsite.

“See,” Webby says, flopping her pack on the ground and raising her arms to encompass the entire area. “There are no trees, no wind, no clouds, nothing to interfere with the pathway of the moon tonight.” She turns around, noticing Uncle Scrooge collecting a few handfuls of dried grass for kindling, and frowns. “I thought it would be best not to have a fire tonight, Uncle Scrooge,” she ventures slowly, twisting her booted toe into the sand. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if light pollution would interfere -”

“Ach, lass, of course you’re right.” Uncle Scrooge bundles the kindling he’s gathered and packs it away for later. Light pollution, he wants to grouse, but he keeps his mouth shut, because this is for Webby.

Campsite sorted, Scrooge shakes out of his greatcoat and lays it on the ground. It’s big, but not too warm in the stifling heat of the jungle, just perfect for lying back and watching the night sky. He tucks his bedroll into a makeshift pillow and leans back, sighing, then motions for Webby to join him.

Webby settles back on her heels and frowns. “I suppose this will work,” she murmurs after a moment. Then, Webby shrugs out of her own light jacket and lays it down beside Scrooge, dusting out the wrinkles and being very careful not to touch Scrooge’s greatcoat.

Scrooge sits up to watch her. When she’s finally done, staring down at her work with her hands on her hips, Scrooge asks her what’s wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Webby answers slowly, turning once again to look over their homely little campsite. “It’s just, I don’t know, shouldn’t we try to…” She waves her hands, at a loss, “to make it special, somehow?”

Scrooge laughs. He just can’t help it. “Come here, lass,” he says, extending his wing and motioning Webby forward onto his greatcoat. “Sit with me.”

Webby sits.

“What could be more special than this?” Scrooge lays back and waves his hands toward the darkening sky. “Two little mortal travelers with naught but the belongings on their backs, hiking all the way up this smoking, sweltering, stinking mountain, just to lay back and behold the awe of the universe? If that’s not special, Webby-lass, then I don’t know what is.” Scrooge twists and shoots Webby a pointed look. “Besides, if you start drawing circles on the ground or stacking rocks, you’re on your own. I have no intention of awakening or summoning anything tonight, do ya understand me?”

Webby giggles. “No evocations tonight, Uncle Scrooge, I promise.”

“I mean it, lassie.” Scrooge’s voice is rough, but his eyes are dancing, and he’s shaking his head to avoid dissolving into laughter. “If you conjure it, Webbigail Vanderquack, you’ll banish it right back where it belongs in the morning, and you’ll not get a bit of help from me, lassie, I can promise you that.”

Webby’s in stitches now. “No, sir,” she hitches between breaths, “I don’t think I’ve read up on my banishing rituals this go-round.” She plops down at Uncle Scrooge’s side with a sigh, tucks her arms under her shirt, and gasps. “Oh, it’s getting dark quickly!”

And it is. The sun, which had stared them in the face all day long, is hanging low in the sky. Webby and Scrooge watch, equally fascinated, as the sun seems suddenly to rest on the edge of the horizon. He appears almost to bob a bit on the water, reminding Webby of one of Uncle Donald’s fishing lines. The banal association makes her breath hitch.

All around them, shadows spring suddenly from the ground, lengthening and twisting until they seem as alive as the trees of the jungle themselves. Behind them, beside them, all around them, the birds and beasts on the island are calling, chanting, singing.

But Webby can hardly keep her focus on the sway of the shadows, so captivated she is by the sun.

It seems like a great searchlight now, almost as if his core is pulsing and everything else around him is bathed in a soft glow.

Time seems to stretch and whisper.

The thrumming of the jungle builds, swells.

When? When?

Even Webby can feel the anticipation building deep in her bones. Frightened, astonished, thrilled beyond words, she finds herself swept away by the cadence of the earth.

“When?”

And at that moment, that very moment, the sun dips gently into the ocean, the shadows fade to black, the trees still their dance, and Webby finds that she exists in complete and utter darkness.

It’s disorienting.

She reaches for Uncle Scrooge’s hand, just to be sure he’s still there, and finds that she can finally exhale when he squeezes her back.

Slowly, silently, Webby leans down on her elbows, resting on Uncle Scrooge’s greatcoat, careful not to make a sound.

Inside her, her heart is swelling, throbbing. Suddenly, Webby feels as if she might burst from the intensity of it all. She realizes with aching clarity that she isn’t a part of this, not really. This island and its magic are not intended for her, but she’s been granted access regardless, allowed to sit and watch the earth at her wildest; audience to the most unique, beautiful, balanced dance that she performs.

And it’s not over. To their right, the moon is rising. She’s a waxing gibbous now, nearly full, and it takes Webby more than half a minute to realize that she’s upside down.

Slowly, and a bit shakily, Webby stands, taking careful steps forward in the dark. She walks and walks, further and further into the night until she’s well past the equator line as it divides the spine. Then, and only then, Webby turns her face back to the moon.

Normal.

“Well, lass, did you work it out?” Scrooge calls as she returns to the campsite.

“I did,” Webby says, carefully settling back down beside him. “We’re looking at the moon from the south, like your friends in New Zealand do. When I crossed the equator and looked up again, I was looking toward the south, from the north. She was right side up again, like she is back home.”

“Well reasoned,” Scrooge says softly, offering Webby a thermos of tea.

Webby takes the tea, and they stay there all night, just watching and listening. The sky is clear and cloudless, a deep black-blue that is dotted with thousands of glittering stars. To her left, Webby can just barely make out the edge of the mountain jutting into her peripheral vision, its shadow high enough to darken the starlight.

Webby makes a game of trying to identify new stars and old constellations and finds that she’s actually rather bad at it. Nothing is in the sky where it should be, and there are some things she’s learned to look for that are gone.

The unfamiliarity makes something twist inside Webby. It’s a cold, lonely feeling, certainly not one she’d expected to find on her pilgrimage to Quackatoa. It reminds her acutely of that sunset, hours ago now, during which she’d felt like an outsider. As she lays on her back with her hands outstretched, palms resting delicately on the ground, Webby begins to feel a bit unbalanced. Looking into the night sky, watching the unfamiliar patterns of these strange stars, Webby feels sick, like she’s falling, hurtling through the darkness at breakneck speed, and if she closes her eyes and concentrates, she knows that she can feel the turn of the earth as it spins ceaselessly beneath her, careening forward into the abyss.

The sensation is beautiful and terrible and horribly lonely all at once.

To her utter shock, tears begin to well in Webby’s eyes. It’s not just here that she’s an observer, she realizes suddenly. Everywhere she’s gone, her whole life, she’s been the orphan, the afterthought, tacked on at the end, allowed to watch the magic meant for others, present and accounted for, but not belonging.

Never belonging.

Heart aching, Webby wipes the tears from her eyes and turns her gaze from the sky. The starlight is just bright enough for her to make out the features of Uncle Scrooge’s face beside her. He is watching enraptured, the glow of the moon dancing across his face.

Webby smiles and shifts a bit closer to him, and now, it’s Uncle Scrooge who reaches for her, offering his hand to Webby to hold. Webby takes it, squeezing. Something settles gently inside her, and this time, she doesn’t let go.

Overhead, the stars are blinking, dancing. There’s no sound, save for the soft breathing of Uncle Scrooge and the gentle thump-thump of Webby’s own heart. The strange constellations are wheeling above her now, flashing and blinking, faster and faster in some dizzying cosmic samba that leaves Webby simultaneously paralyzed and itching to join.

It’s almost a shock to see pink on the horizon.

“Wow,” Webby breathes as the stars descend lower and lower in the sky, their dance slowed. To the east, the first rays of sunlight are just brushing the treetops, bathing them in a golden glow, and once again, just like the sun had before, the moon has landed on the horizon, thrumming with renewed energy as she skims the water. The animals are quieter this time, their voices muted in the hazy light of the dawn.

But still, Webby feels the wild anticipation rising within her.

The moon sinks below the horizon all at once, leaving behind a brilliant streak of shimmering green light that blazes across the water. The residual glow rises, unfurling into a gently curling curtain of swirling green that stains the horizon. Behind it, Webby can just make out the last of the glittering stars as they slowly fade into the light of the encroaching sunrise.

“Wow,” Webby whispers again. It’s the only thing she can say.

“Wow is right,” Scrooge groans from his position on the ground. “Let’s have a bit of shut-eye, lass, before the sun gets high and we start ruminating on the metaphysical.”

Webby rolls her eyes half-heartedly and tosses him a blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quackatoa is blatantly based off of the island of Krakatoa, or Krakatau to be more correct. The whole stinkin’ island did blow to bits in 1883, and there are some associated legends regarding lost treasure there. No creativity here, guys - I can’t make all this up.
> 
> I have a hardcore headcanon that Della always referred to Donald as ‘Donnie.’ Scrooge uses the term rarely, usually only when he’s being particularly manipulative, or, sometimes, when he desperately needs Donald’s attention. It never fails to work.
> 
> Please please please don’t fact check me too scrupulously on cardinal directions, obliquity of the Earth, or Kepler’s laws of planetary motion. I did draw a map for this fic, but it’s a very crude, very flawed map. Basically, dudes and gals, please squint and accept the sad reality that I am not Huey. ;)
> 
> On a similar note, there’s no beta involved, folks. Errors are all on me, and despite a quick Grammarly check, there are probably plenty of them.
> 
> Reviews are love. I realize that this fandom is super small, and that my role in it is even smaller, but y’all, I’m not kidding when I say I poured my heart and soul into this story. I spent hours and hours writing notes, checking facts, charting scene settings, and falling in love with these characters. Feedback is super appreciated.
> 
> That being said, please feel free to come hang out on Tumblr, @alliterative-albatross. I’m here to make friends, and I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> More to follow soon. <3


	2. Chapter 2

“Up and at ‘em, sleepyhead!” Webby is at her best in the morning, Scrooge learns, bouncing about the camp, cleaning pans, packing up, and generally making a nuisance of herself.

Scrooge groans, flops the sleeping bag over his head, then groans again. 152 is really far too old to be roughing it like this. He sits up, grimacing, and motions for Webby to come closer.

She drops his tea thermos at her feet and looks at him appraisingly. “Whack your back?” she asks, eyebrows drawn in sympathy.

Scrooge nods. Whatever’s got his back in knots seems to have silenced his voice, too.

“Alright, Mr. McDuck.” Webby’s tone is a warning as she rolls back her sleeves and sets to a series of increasingly acrobatic stretches. “Hold your breath, okay?”

Scrooge grunts in reply.

_Twack!_

All of the air leaves Scrooge’s lungs with a swift whoosh, and he falls forward on his hands and knees, gasping.

He can feel Webby watching him for a moment. Her arms are folded, and her expression is a curious blend of satisfaction and amusement.

Wincing, Scrooge rises, slowly at first, then straight up. He turns, then stretches his body easily, with minimal lingering soreness.

“Curse me kilts, lass,” he manages, still panting to catch his breath.

“It’s called Kampo.” Behind him, Webby is openly giggling, and Scrooge can’t help but snort in reluctant amusement. “Japanese manipulative medicine. Granny taught it to me. She says it’s great for getting the kinks out of an old bag of -” Webby cuts herself off suddenly, blushing.

Scrooge can’t quite find it in himself to seethe. “An old bag of bones like me,” he finishes with a laugh. Whatever voodoo 22 had taught to Webby, she’d taught her well. Scrooge isn’t even stiff anymore.

“Right!” Scrooge shouts in a desperate attempt to break the moment. As precious as Webbigail may be, he’s had quite enough of being the continuing butt of the joke. He hoists his pack easily over his shoulder and reaches down for his thermos of tea. “Off we go then, Webby-girl! To adventure!"

“And diamonds!” Webby chimes in, booted feet already stomping eagerly northward.

“And diamonds,” Scrooge echoes, feeling more cheerful than he has in ages.

Neither of them notices the gentle sway of the earth beneath their feet or the modest spray of pebbles that go skittering down the hillside beside them.

* * *

By mid-morning, they’re picking their way down the tooth-like spires of shale that Scrooge had eyed so distastefully the morning before. It’s tough work. Scrooge worries about Webby, with her small feet and questionable grip strength, but despite only two measly hours of fitful sleep, Webby once again exceeds all of Scrooge’s expectations, proving to be lithe and graceful as she leaps effortlessly from rock to rock.

“Watch for slick surfaces,” Scrooge can’t help calling down to her. “Looks like rain up there.”

Indeed, to the north, in the direction of Mt. Anak, the sky is darkening, and somewhere behind Scrooge, thunder rumbles threateningly.

Thankfully, there’s less treacherous climbing than Scrooge had anticipated. All the same, he’s grateful to finally find his feet back on solid ground. Flora and fauna are significantly scarce compared to the south side of the island, but at least the threat of rain seems to have left them now. Shading his eyes, Scrooge watches as the storm clouds roll past to the west, exposing the ceaselessly blazing sun. With no shade to cover them and no animals to chatter incessantly, the entire aura of the lowlands makes Scrooge a bit uncomfortable; it’s dead, deserted, and far, far too quiet.

It’s a bit ominous.

Scrooge shakes off his dark mood. He’s been feeling a bit off-balanced ever since that blasted solstice. Again, he gives Webby charge of the map, which pleases her to no end. Her uncontainable joy is inspiration enough for Scrooge refocus on the simple wonder of the day, rather than all the melancholy thoughts that last night’s display had evoked in him.

Really, he’s just here to facilitate Webby’s adventure. All the rest is bonus.

So, Scrooge swallows hard against the mounting unease that threatens his unflappable good mood and allows Webby to lead them north, lower and lower into the volcanic wastelands where McGraph’s treasure is reputed to be.

* * *

One unanticipated problem with the lowlands is how scorched they are. Water had been plentiful and easy to find on the south side of the island, but here, in the craggy northern slopes, Scrooge is beginning to worry that their canteens will run low if he and Webby aren’t careful. 

By mid-afternoon, the stupid sun is once again blazing directly into their eyes, beating down with tangible force onto their backs and shoulders.

Scrooge wipes his brow and shakes his canteen. Over half-way empty. They’ve got to find water, and soon, or risk turning back. 

“I’ve found a stream!” Webby shouts, just as Scrooge is really beginning to worry.

“Well done,” Scrooge praises, jogging a bit to catch up with her. He finds Webby straddling over a little trickle of water winding its way down the shale toward the western shore. Scrooge stands, hands shading his eyes to trace its origin.

Strange.

He takes a few steps, then a few steps more. Webby follows him dutifully, frowning in puzzlement. Then, finally, after forty yards or so of tracking, Scrooge arrives at the slope of a small hill, and there, at the bottom, finds the little crack in the ground from which their water seems to be welling.

“Looks like natural spring water,” Scrooge exclaims, delighted. Springs are rare finds even in the undeveloped areas of Calisota. He points, motioning for Webby to come closer. “See how it surfaces from beneath the ground?”

Webby drops to her knees to get a better look. “Cool,” she says, staring wide-eyed at the tiny bubbles of water that gently gurgle their way from beneath the mountain. She cocks her head back up to Scrooge, eyes questioning. “So, it’s safe to drink, then?”

Scrooge folds his arms and sighs. “Hmm, likely it is,” he muses, but that nagging sense of impending doom that he’s felt ever since their sleepless night on the spine rears to the forefront of his thoughts. He shakes his head, cursing himself for a senile fool, and says, “Better to treat it first anyway. I’ll not have you coming down with giardia or any other such nonsense.”

Webby nods sagely. “Definitely,” she agrees. “We don’t want to risk our recovery operation.” She winks at Scrooge, then opens her canteen and plunges her hand into the water. “Ouch!” she cries, leaping back and clutching her fingers to her chest. “It’s hot!”

Scrooge’s heart leaps into his throat. He checks himself, glancing at Webby and confirming that she’d been more startled by the spring’s temperature than properly burned. That sorted, Scrooge turns his attention to the stream, bending down and carefully extending his palm over its surface to test the heat rising from the water.

It’s warm.

Slowly, carefully, Scrooge extends the tips of his fingers into the stream, then pulls them back, wincing a bit and clenching his fists.

The spring is hot, very hot, almost like bathwater drawn with only the left tap running. The temperature probably isn’t high enough to cause serious injury, but it is higher than Scrooge would expect from such a small spring, especially one so far from a supposedly dormant volcano.

He stands and turns to the west, shading his eyes and looking to the sky. He can barely make out the peak of Mt. Anak and what appears to be a tiny puff of blueish smoke rising from its dome.

“Alright then, Webbigail?” he murmurs, still straining to glimpse the top of the volcano.

“Fine, Uncle Scrooge,” Webby calls. She’s knelt over the spring again, filling each canteen slowly, careful to keep her fingers tucked away from the water.

“Right,” Scrooge mutters. The harder he looks, the more the whiff of smoke seems to be just a bit of passing cloud.

Scrooge shrugs back the nagging worry that is settling deep in the pit of his stomach. Hot springs are a perfectly natural phenomenon, he reminds himself. They’re found in plenty of places all over the world. In fact, Scrooge can name serval countries whose entire economic systems are structured around hot spring tourism. He takes half a moment to wonder if there’s more than one investment opportunity to be explored on Quackatoa.

When Scrooge turns back to glance at Webby, she's standing at his side, both canteens full and ready to go. He smiles down at her, reaching for the water that she carries so that she can unfold her map in both hands. “Lead on, lass!”

“Yes, sir!” Webby laughs, and together, they continue their march toward the treasure.

* * *

“Look at this!” Webby shouts, pointing dead ahead. 

Scrooge dutifully follows Webby as she takes off like a shot in the direction that she’d pointed. They are still descending the north slopes of the island, each kilometer taking them further from the spine, not quite in the path of the volcano, but steeper toward the lowlands and the northern sea.

Each kilometer is also taking them further from their rendezvous point with Launchpad.

Scrooge arrives to find Webby laughing and leaping from rock to rock. He takes two steps back, getting a good, long look at what Webby’d been pointing to.

It’s a boulder field.

Stretching above them, to the west and upward, as far as their eyes can see, are a sea of boulders.

To Webby, it’s great fun. She’s already climbing to the top of one boulder, only to take a flying leap and land spread-eagled on another.She finds a perfect row of them and makes a running start, bouncing from rock to rock to rock, pushing off first with one foot, then with the other, then with her hands, then landing in an impressive summersault on the highest in the row. She bows then rises, grinning, and waves to Uncle Scrooge. “Did you see that?” she shouts.

“I did,” Scrooge answers absently. The problem is, Scrooge sees a lot more than Webby’s athleticism.His pride for his niece pales in comparison to the sobering realization of what he’s actually seeing.

To the casual observer, Webby’s new playground is just a field of randomly shaped boulders. But to Scrooge, who’s seen enough of the world in his century and a half of explorations to know downtime from danger, this is clearly the work of a mudslide. The boulders are caked to the ground in a layer of firm, hardened mud, and between them, if one knows to look, Scrooge can see roots, vines, even twisted and snapped tree trunks sticking up gruesomely between the rocks. It’s damning evidence of the entire conglomeration’s violent trek down the mountainside, destroying everything in its path.

Scrooge waves for Webby to come closer, then kneels down to stick a finger in the mud at his feet. It’s firm, certainly, but when Scrooge digs a bit, putting some pressure on the packed, glue-like outer layer, the hard outer shell gives way, a putrid grey goop oozing slowly from beneath the hole he’d just made.

“Webby!” Scrooge calls, standing and straining his eyes against the harsh sun. Where is she? Scrooge’s heart leaps to his throat. He’d seen her seconds ago, had only bent down for a moment to check the stability of the landslide.

You fool, his own voice hisses bitingly in his mind. Anything could have happened.

“Webby!” he shouts again, desperate to find his little girl.

“What’s up, Uncle Scrooge?” Webby asks from right beside him.

Hearing Webby’s voice, seeing her dark eyes looking brightly up at him leaves Scrooge feeling suddenly deflated. He drops to his knees, pulling Webby down with him. She looks a bit confused. Heedlessly, Scrooge places his hands heavily on her shoulders and takes half a moment to look at her, to really see his niece, alive and breathing and well, and then he shakes his head, locking away all of the awful thoughts of ‘what could have been’ back into the deepest recesses of his mind.

He takes Webby’s hand and together, they pick at the dry earth until mud oozes from underneath.

“Oh,” Webby breathes, wide-eyed. “It was a mudslide, not a boulder field.”

“Yes,” Uncle Scrooge tells her, shifting a bit closer so thather shoulder rests on his wing. “And it’s not stable yet. See that mud, lass?” Scrooge points, but he doesn’t have to. Webby is sitting with her legs crossed, carefully wiping the sticky mud from her fingers onto the scraped knees of her khakis.

Scrooge swallows, refuses to think of all the ways he could have lost Webby just then.

“It happened recently, then,” Webby says softly. Hands clean now, she stands, shading her eyes and looking westward, toward the mountain. From this position, there’s no denying that it’s smoking, gentle little blue puffs of steam dissipating quickly into the wind. It’s almost beautiful to behold. Webby turns to Scrooge, gaze questioning. He’d seen it, too.

“Uncle Scrooge,” Webby ventures, reaching for his hand in an attempt to shake him from his thoughts. “Uncle Scrooge, we should really get moving if we’re going to find McGraph’s treasure in time.”

Once again, Scrooge shakes himself free of the darkness, packs away that nagging feeling that the rug is about to be pulled from beneath him, that he’s about to make a huge mistake.

He’s Scrooge McDuck.

He shoulders his pack and grins widely. “After you, Webby-lass,” he says cheerfully.“Just be sure to stay out of unstable landslides, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Webby grins back at her uncle. “Sorry about that, by the way,” she furrows her brow, looking back to the boulder field in obvious disappointment. “It looked like the perfect place to practice my wushu!”

“Well, lass, if it’s wushu you’re after, how about I take you to a silly little place called Lawton?” Scrooge offers, absently extending a hand to reach for her. “Plenty of boulder fields there, and the best part is, they’re perfectly stable. Good burgers, too!”

Webby bounces to her feet, jogging to catch up. She’s excited about the boulder field, sure, but Uncle Scrooge had basically just offered her another trip with just them.

She keeps her smile to herself and reaches for Uncle Scrooge, clenching her fingers tightly in his as he recalculates their route to put them well out of the trajectory of the mudslide. 

* * *

Not twenty minutes since the mudslide fiasco, the mountain begins to rumble.

“Whoa, did you feel that?” Webby asks, voice shaking as she reaches for the ground with all fours.

“You’d be mad or half-dead not to,” Scrooge answers irascibly. “The earth just swayed beneath our feet, Webbigail. I imagine the entire mountain felt that.”

Scrooge turns once more to look backward.

The mudslide they’d just encountered, the mudslide that Scrooge himself had assessed as ‘recent but probably stable’ is inching toward them.

Scrooge knows it is because the last time he’d turned to look, the boulder line had stopped just before the ficus tree to the south side. Now, Scrooge can hardly see the tree - it’s been covered in mud.

And the mud is moving faster.

Scrooge reaches for his little girl’s hand, comes up empty.

Blast, where is she?

“Uncle Scrooge,” Webby’s voice comes from behind him.

Scrooge whirls, reaching desperately toward her. He’s got to get Webby to safety.

“It’s an avalanche,” Webby says, tugging at Scrooge’s hand.“We’ve got to make for the high ground, and quick!”

Once again, Scrooge allows Webby to drag him, this time, back the way they came. The higher they can get, the safer they are from the mudslide.

After half an hour of desperate climbing, they are back to the hot spring from the morning.

Scrooge lays on his back, panting. There’s no room left in his mind for dignity. He realizes, now, what’s been nagging at him all day since their night on the equator.

This mountain is about to blow, and if it does, it will take him and Webbigail with it.

Scrooge McDuck has faced death loads of times, and he’s won. When you’re 152 years old and you’ve seen everything the world has to offer, death suddenly doesn’t seem so mysterious and alarming. In fact, there’s not much that Death can threaten that Scrooge McDuck hasn’t overcome, observed, outwitted, or outrun.

If this is Scrooge’s time to go, then so be it. Off he’ll shuffle from this mortal coil with a grin on his bill, onward the last great unknown, the greatest adventure of all.

But Webbigail.

Scrooge turns to Webby, who is sitting against the slope of shale with her knees to her elbows. She’s got her head in her hands, staring contemplatively down at McGraph’s map that lies between her feet.

“You know,” she muses, working her tongue between her bill and pushing back her hair in a gesture of deep thought. “If we cut back around south, keeping to the edge of the crags, we could avoid the worst of the avalanches, and…”

Scrooge’s heart throbs in his chest as he listens to her.

Webby deserves more. At twelve years old, already she’s so bright, so enthusiastic, so determined. All of that, but yet she’s barely seen any of the world, has never tasted the wild thrill of discovery or relished in the bone-deep fulfillment of success. She’s certainly never glimpsed the vastness of the universe, never succumbed to the joy and wonder and danger and delight of it all.

It’s a crying shame.

Scrooge contemplates her for a moment. That night on the spine, looking into the sky and waiting for his life-altering moment of insight, Scrooge had only felt empty. He’d told himself that watching the track of the moon as she’d sailed delicately across the sky had reminded him too fiercely of Della, had forced him to revisit too much of all that he’d lost, but the truth is, when he’d noticed Webbigail’s tears and reached for her hand, Scrooge hadn’t done so out of pity. He’d reached for Webby instinctively, automatically. He’d reached for her in solidarity, out of a shared and stifling awareness of all they’d lost, and then, together, as they’d laid beneath the stars and counted constellations and clung tight to one another’s hands, Scrooge had felt whole.

He glances again at Webby, heart swelling in his chest. This little girl, his little girl (for Scrooge had truly wanted to claim her as his kin ever since he’d first truly known her) has so much to offer. Webby is so young, so full of life, so happy and eager and intelligent and teachable and remarkable.

Webby could be anything, absolutely anything, Scrooge knows, if only she put her formidable mind to it. He realizes suddenly that he genuinely wants to see what becomes of Webbigail Vanderquack, wants to watch her change the world, wants to be there to cheer her on, if he can.

But here they are, in stupid, stinking, sweltering Quackatoa, Quackatoa where Scrooge had brought them.

Webby is going to die today, that insidious little voice in the back of Scrooge’s mind whispers treacherously.

And that’s unacceptable.

“Blast that treasure!” Scrooge shouts suddenly, springing to his feet and throwing his arms wide to rid himself of the demons that spew their dirty lies in his mind.

He won’t let it happen.

Scrooge rips through his things, tumping the packs upside down one-by-one.The electro-scopes, the metal detector, the recovery system, the pin-pointers, the panning bins - he flings it all away, watching with a fierce expression of wild satisfaction as all of his carefully collected equipment goes flying down the mountain, clattering as it tumbles out of sight.

“Uncle Scrooge!” Webby squeaks, racing to his side in an to attempt to stop him. She’s too late.

Scrooge cinches up his empty pack and drops to his knees, gripping each of Webby’s cheeks in his palms. “Webby-lass,” he says solemnly, “I need you to listen to me.” Webby’s eyes are blown wide. She’s startled, but at least he’s got her attention. Scrooge points westward, toward the mountain. “I have reason to believe that this volcano is going to erupt,” he says seriously. “And when it does, it won’t be pretty.” He sighs, turns back to Webby, who’s hardly moved. “I’ve got to get you out of here, lass. I’ve got to keep you safe.”

Webby nods obediently, but Scrooge notices the tears welling in her eyes at the sight of his empty backpack. “But what about the treasure, Mr. McDuck?” she asks quietly, somehow managing not to sound as young as she looks.

Scrooge sighs heavily. All throughout that solstice, Scrooge had been contemplating everything he’d ever lost - Grandad’s wallet clip, his baby sister, Della, even Donald and the boys. And it’s always been that way, Scrooge realizes suddenly. He’s spent his entire life looking forward, jumping from country to country, continent to continent, grabbing whatever pretty bauble he could to store in a giant pit beneath the ground.Losing hurts, so Scrooge McDuck vowed never to lose, and never to let go, and never to look back, because he dared not remember the things he’d left behind.

This time, Scrooge vows more firmly than he ever has that he will not lose. “I’ve got all the treasure I could ever wish for and more,” he says softly, leaning forward to brush a chaste kiss on Webby’s forehead. “I want you safe, lass, and that means we’re climbing back up to the ridge.”

“Okay.” Webby’s voice is soft and sad as she looks down at the twisted and broken treasure hunting equipment below.

* * *

The ascent back up the spine is so much worse. Scrooge can feel that he’s running on less than two hours of sleep. His every thought seems distant somehow, as if he’s looking at the world through a thin sheen of glass. His movements are heavy, slow.

To his left, Webbigail seems to be performing just fine, though she is a bit quiet.

Ah, the vitality of the youth, Scrooge muses bitterly.

That stubborn silence, though. That’s a bit worrisome. In fact, the trouble with Weibbigail is often getting her to be quiet. But silence can mean a great many things. Webby may be tired, stressed, or scared. All are reasonable responses to their precarious situation. Scrooge feels it’s best not to raise it in conversation. The shale is slick and navigating it is difficult, often requiring four-point contact. Hardly the ideal spot for a quick heart-to-heart.

Finally, arms, legs, and abs sore and aching (why Scrooge had neglected to pack his grappling hook is beyond him), they’ve once again made it to the top of the ridge. Scrooge does not lift Webby up on his shoulders this time; he’s far too tired, and it's still in the back of his mind that Webby has been uncharacteristically withdrawn today.

Instead, he gives her a job. “Lass, I think we’ll camp here for tonight.” Scrooge looks around them, shading his eyes against the sinking afternoon sun and deeming the area sufficient. “Seems safe enough.” He turns to Webby, who is scuffing her booted toes into the shale. The sight makes Scrooge frown. There’s something going on between them, something that he should really address.

He’s just not sure what.

“Webby-lass,” he offers with a gentle smile, “How about I get a fire going, and you boil us some water. No more of that protein-bar nonsense. We’ll have rice and beans tonight!”

“Yes, sir!” Webby dutifully gathers the kettle and sets to work pouring their filtered water inside. When it only fills halfway, Webby waves at Scrooge, mumbling something about, ‘going to find more’ and slips away from camp.

Scrooge, concentrating intensely on conjuring a fire with nothing but dusty scrub for kindling, notices that Webby’s gone about five minutes later. He brushes back the caustic worry that rises in his throat and reminds himself that Webbigail is perfectly capable of getting herself out of trouble, if not avoiding it altogether.

“How about a drink?” he hears Webby call a few minutes later.

Ah, water. Scrooge shakes away the fog of his sleepless night, remembering now that he’d asked Webby to put the kettle on to boil. Between the mudslide fiasco and Scrooge’s mild mental meltdown, they’d completely forgotten to refill their water supply at the spring. Scrooge shakes his canteen. Nearly empty.

He turns to see Webby behind him, huddled in a ball over a small, bubbling puddle in the shale. “I think it’s another spring!” she shouts triumphantly.

Strange, Scrooge muses as he rises from his knees, for her to have found a spring this high up. He moves toward her, eyes sweeping the ground in search of the water’s path.

It hits him that there is no path just as Webby exclaims “Hey, where’d it go?”

“Curse me kilts,” he breathes, and then Scrooge is on his feet, panic clawing at his throat as he runs as fast as his spats will carry him.

It’s not a spring.

It can’t be a spring.

“Webby, no! Stop!” Scrooge shouts, waving his arms like a madman.

He prays to every god he’s ever personally offended that he reach Webby in time.

“Back away, Webby! Come away!”

Webby turns slowly; far, far too slowly.

"It’s a geyser!” Scrooge barrels toward her, pointing, waving, voice cracking at the force of his shouts. “It’s a geyser, and it’s about to erupt!”

Eyes widening in sudden understanding, Webby whirls back toward the puddle with her hands on hips, brows raised in question.

It is too late.

Scrooge flings himself in front of the dried up puddle, hip-checking Webby to the side just as an angry torrent of boiling chemicals erupts directly in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for the delay in posting. Real life has brutally reasserted its authority over me in the past few weeks. I hope the quality of the fic makes it worth the wait <3
> 
> warnings for discussion of blindness. If that squicks you, you may want to consider skipping this chapter.
> 
> Please remember that reviews are love.

It’s absolute madness.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Scrooge loses all control. There’s no time to feel, no time to think, no way to prepare, just a sickening loss of gravity and wild splaying of limbs and a deafening roar as the brutal force of the geyser sends him flying.

He lands hard a second later, with an umph that jars the breath from his lungs.

And then the heat.

All Scrooge can feel is heat. Heat all around him, from the blistering spray of the geyser as it rushes past, oppressively drifting downward from the ever-blazing sun, rising from the molten core of the earth below him.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, the spray stops with a gentle gurgle, leaving Scrooge drowning in a wave of silence.

Startled and shaken, Scrooge takes one shuddering breath, and then another. His ears are ringing and his thoughts are spinning, his body and brain still struggling to comprehend what’s just happened.

Scrooge rolls onto his back, then groans in agony.

His eyes.

His eyes are on fire.

Scrooge reaches desperately for his face, fingers fumbling to find something, anything that he can wipe from his eyes.There’s nothing, only mud and hot water mixing into an oily slop that soaks the feathers of his fingers and trickles down his elbows.

Scrooge curses under his breath, clenching his fists into the warm sludge and blinking furiously in an attempt to focus his vision.

He cannot. His world is a dizzying blur of formless shadows and swirling brightness.

Scrooge panics.

“Webbigail,” he chokes, clamping his eyes shut tight and doing his best not to swipe at them with his muddy fingers. He pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his head down, hissing under his breath.

“Webby!” he tries again, more desperately this time.

Drat. Where is that girl? A spike of concern claws at the back of his mind. The geyser’s spray could have carried her anywhere.

Scrooge flinches as something glances against his left shoulder.

“I’m here, Uncle Scrooge,” Webby manages. Her voice is breathless, as if she’d been running. Scrooge can feel the heat of her body as she kneels beside him and places her tiny hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Scrooge doesn’t know how to respond. His thoughts are reeling, mind and body still scrambling to make sense of so much sensation.

He feels like he might be sick.

Head swimming, Scrooge leans over, swallowing thickly against his mounting nausea. Webby allows him to rest against her, settling back on her heels as Scrooge falls into her shoulder and buries his face into the crook of her neck. Webby doesn't question it, seeming to realize that Scrooge needs a moment to catch his breath. They sit like that for a while, neither speaking.

“Uncle Scrooge,” Webby ventures after a long moment. Scrooge shudders as she stands, withdrawing her hand from where it rested against his shoulders. “I have to know if you’re okay,” she prompts a little more forcefully this time.

Scrooge shivers. Saying it aloud is different than thinking it to one’s self. He takes a deep breath, settling upright on his knees in the mud, and sighs softly. “I’m having a bit of trouble with me eyes.”

Webby is instantly on the move, as Scrooge had known she would be. “Let me see them,” she insists.

Scrooge obliges, leaning back on his palms and forcing himself to open his stinging eyes for Webby to appraise. She's gentle, letting Scrooge know exactly where she will touch and when, but all the same, it is nearly unbearable for Scrooge to find himself so thoroughly at the mercy of anyone, let alone a child.

Webby hums, deep in thought. “Do they hurt?” she asks as she finally releases her fingers from Scrooge’s face.

“They burn a bit,” Scrooge admits. In reality, he’d like to tear his face off bare-handed, feathers, eyeballs, and all, but he knows that saying so would only worry Webby.

“Good, that’s good,” Webby murmurs. “It’s probably not so bad if you can still feel pain,” she muses after a moment’s thought.

Impatient, Scrooge interrupts. “What do you see?” he demands.

Again, Webby leans closer, gently peeling back Scrooge’s eyelids to get a better look. “The whites of your eyes look very red,” she says. “It’s definitely a burn, though I’m not sure whether it’s chemical or mechanical.”

Scrooge groans. A twelve-year-old duckling diagnosing acute post-traumatic blindness is laughable.

Heedless, Webby continues. “But we should probably treat it like both.” She fidgets, then adds hesitantly, “You’ll have to let me rinse them out, Mr. McDuck, or they'll only get worse.”

As much as Scrooge would like to complain, he’s inclined to agree with her. The quicker any lingering contaminants are flushed from his eyes, the better his chances of making a meaningful recovery. Sulkily, Scrooge folds his hands behind his back, mostly to protect Webby from his instinct to fight against the inevitable sting of flushing the contaminants out of his injured eyes. Then, biting his tongue and cursing his luck, Scrooge leans back into the mud, laying perfectly still as Webby clambers on top of him and with gentle movements pries open each eye one at a time to rinse it clean.

Scrooge’s groan morphs to more of a growl.

It burns like hell-fire.

Finally having had enough, Scrooge blusters a sigh and sits up, pushing Webby roughly off his chest. She yelps in surprise, scrambling to settle at a safe distance.

Scrooge ignores her. He rises again to his knees, drawing another deep breath. This is it.The moment of truth. The entire operation, Webbigail's safety, their very lives, perhaps, depend on what he sees next.

With a heavy heart, Scrooge opens his still-tender eyes and looks around. Since being rinsed, his vision has improved a bit. Scrooge notices some colors, though these are muted and vague in a way that makes him question if what he sees are real objects at all. For the most part, his vision remains mostly grayscale, abstract.

It’s certainly not enough for Scrooge to lead them home.

Defeated, Scrooge makes his way in the direction that he'd last heard Webby.

“Well?” Webby asks hesitantly, voice dropping an a way that suggests that she might be shying away from Scrooge. “What do you see?”

Scrooge groans, feeling awful about the way he treated Webbigail; she was only trying to help. He pats the earth beside him in invitation, relieved to feel that it is dry. Webby eases down rather far to his left, then scoots closer so that their knees are just brushing.

Scrooge struggles with what to say. ‘Blind’ is a word he assumed he’d never have to use, at least, not in this context. He hadn’t thought about such a possibility at all until now, and it’s much harder for him to get the words out than he’d anticipated.

Scrooge decides to try for nonchalance. He bumps Webby's tiny shoulder, noting that she’d again leaned away. “Oh, can’t get rid of me that easily, lass,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from falling flat. “I can see well enough. Colors, a bit. Shapes, if I’m close enough.” He pauses, turning his head to gaze contemplatively toward the western jungle, where blobs of grey and darker grey dance before him.

He sighs, again leaning heavily on Webby. Judging by her sharp little gasp, she hadn’t been ready for him this time. He wraps his wings around her, pulling her in and stabilizing them both. “Lass,” he says into the top of her hair, “I’m hardly well enough to lead us to the rendezvous point.”

Webby is silent for only a moment. “Okay,” she cries, pulling away from Scrooge with a force that rocks him back on his heels. By the time he rights himself, Webby is shredding something from behind him, but Scrooge can’t make out what it is. After a long moment, Webby approaches him slowly, announcing her presence as she reaches Scrooge. “Here,” she says softly, “I’m going to touch your hand.”

In Webby’s hand is a long, thin strip of linen cloth. Scrooge takes it into his lap, runs it through his fingers. It feels an awful lot like the material of Webby’s light coat. Scrooge furrows his brows and looks in the direction of Webbigail. “For my eyes?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,“ Webby answers again over the ripping of cloth. “The whites still look too red to me, even after you’ve rinsed them. I’m afraid they’ll blister. I don’t know much about first aid for eyeballs, but I think it makes sense to keep them out of the direct sunlight.”

Scrooge deflates a bit. Acknowledging his injury on such a tangible level feels a bit too much like admitting defeat. All he wants is to get Webby off of this god-forsaken island, and now, he can’t even do that. Quickly and neatly, he ties the strip of linen around his eyes, darkening the swirling blur of motion that might have been Webbigail.

He takes her hand, notices that she is trembling.

“Webby,” Scrooge says seriously. He finds himself suddenly uncomfortable to be so open with her, afraid that if he cannot look her in the face, she will miss his intensity, his sincerity. Scrooge wraps both hands around her fingers and squeezes, massaging them until they feel warm and right in his hands. “Listen to me,” he says seriously.

“I’m listening,” Webby answers in a small voice.

Despite his blindness, Scrooge smiles. Of all his ducklings, it was always Webbigail most prepared for an adventure; spirited, brave, but pragmatic as well, when the time comes. Hope renews in Scrooge as he realizes that there isn’t a single duckling in all the world that he’d rather rely on than Webbigail Vanderquack.He falls to his knees, keeping a gentle hold on her trembling fingers. “I need you to contact Launchpad,” he says seriously, running his thumbs in little circles over the cool surface of Webby’s hands. “The emergency pack at the bottom of your bag, lass. You’ll find a radio.”

He hears Webby shift, hears her rummaging through her pack, and then, silence.

A long silence.

“Webby?” he calls. Blast, but it’s frustrating not to be able to see what she’s doing.

“Mr. McDuck” Webby whispers haltingly in a voice so quiet that Scrooge can barely hear.

“Speak up, lass!” he calls impatiently.

Webby is still for a moment, and then, “I’m afraid that the radio is broken.”

Everything in Scrooge screams denial. “Bring it to me,” he says sharply.

Webby does, and then the radio is in Scrooge’s hands. It’s obvious that it’s been smashed, probably when Webby had been thrown by the geyser. Scrooge sighs. If only he could see, he might have a chance of fixing it. Maybe. Donald was always better at troubleshooting technology, and Huey would certainly have been an asset in this situation, too.

But Donald and Huey aren’t here. He’s alone with Webby, and Scrooge has no way of assisting her with fixing the radio that even he hardly understands.

“It was in my backpack,” Webby volunteers bravely. Scrooge can tell by her volume that she’s not shrinking away, not this time. “It’s smashed, but I think the circuit is waterlogged, as well.“

“Right,” Scrooge blusters, fumbling with the ruined radio. He knows immediately that the radio is beyond repair. Suddenly enraged, Scrooge flings the useless plastic bits aside, where they lands in the mud with a soft splat.

“Mr McDuck,” Webby whimpers. Scrooge is shocked to think that she might be close to tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, lass,” Scrooge responds with an optimism that he does not feel. He reaches out with his left wing until he makes contact with Webby and pulls her closer to him.“These things happen.”

Webby shudders.

Scrooge taps her gently with his elbow. “High spirits, Webby-love! I’m Scrooge McDuck. Surely you know that I don’t adventure without encountering technical difficulties at least once in a while? We’ve made do without radios or walking sticks, or helicopters or diving equipment in the past! We’ll just have to make it to the rendezvous point on the beach.”

And hope that Launchpad has the sense to pick us up early, he doesn’t say.

He turns his blinded eyes in Webby’s direction, reaching out his hands to find her. Webby grasps him. Again, her fingers are cold and shaking.

“Webby, lass,” Scrooge says seriously, wishing like anything that he could look into her fierce blue eyes. “Do you think you can get us home?”

He feels Webby stiffen. “Of course I can,” she says in a voice that is too mature, too brave.

Scrooge is overcome with gratitude for his little girl. ‘Of course you can,” he repeats softly, squeezing her arms. “Lead us on then, lass.”

So Webby carefully takes Scrooge on his left side, throwing his arm around her shoulders. Scrooge carries his cane in his right hand, and off they go, Scrooge leaning heavily to the left with Webby’s support.

* * *

It’s slow going. Webby’s decided that climbing straight up the lowlands is a terrible idea. Not only does it lead them past more geysers, it puts them directly in the path of the volcano. Instead, she’s elected to climb straight south and then wind around the shoreline to the east. It’s a much longer route, and dangerous, too - the mountain pass is steeper, with plenty of unstable rocks made slick by the sea-spray for Scrooge to slip on, and no foliage to hide them from the elements.

Webby does her absolute best to warn Scrooge of the dangers of the precarious pass, but the deeper the sun falls toward the ocean, the harder Webby has to strain her eyes to see.

Just as the sun is falling beyond the horizon, Webby misses a step. “Wait!” she cries just as Scrooge comes crashing down, landing hard on his left hip and right wrist. He hisses, curling into a ball to assess the damage.

He can feel Webby pulling away from him.

For some reason, Scrooge finds this unacceptable. “Can’t you be more careful?” he snaps, stroking his hands along his legs to check for injuries. He finds a few scrapes on his knees and discovers what will become a massive bruise on his hip.

Thankfully, he’s broken no bones.

He can sense Webby shrinking further back. “I will, sir,” she whispers, voice nearly lost over the wind. “I’m sorry.”

And there’s that infernal sir again. Scrooge grits his teeth, but doesn’t correct her. He reaches for the canteen at his side.

Empty.

Blast that child. She’d wasted all of their drinking water in an attempt to clean out his eyes.He clamps the canteen back to his hip with a huff.

Scrooge knows, deep down, that the lack of water had not been Webby’s fault; in fact, he’d been the one to push them forward from the spring, eager to get as far from the mudslide as possible.

Scrooge dismisses the thought as it comes. There’s hardly time to dwell on such trivialities as casting blame. 

He hears Webby twist round, and then, under her breath, Webby says, “Looks like that cloud is coming back.”

Bollocks. Rain is the last thing they need.

* * *

Just when Scrooge thinks things cannot get any more miserable, the rain comes. 

There’s no warning. The sky grumbles ominously, and then all at once, a torrent of surprisingly cold water is falling thickly over Scrooge's heads and shoulders.

He sighs, cursing the jungle under his breath. December is the edge of the Qwackoatoan rainy season, and he should have remembered it.

And as luck would have it, he’s lost his best hat in the geyser’s blast.

“Webbigail!” Scrooge calls irritably, forced to shout over the din of the storm.

She doesn’t answer.

Scrooge finds that he’s a bit annoyed. He knows that he’d been harsh with her over the slip-up earlier in the evening, and even now, part of him regrets it. The other, more primal part of Scrooge’s brain is tired an cranky; both from lack of sleep and now from being drenched on a mountainside.

Never-mind the fact that he’s likely lost his vision for good.

Naturally, the possibility has crossed his mind. Scrooge is no idiot. He knows that the longer he goes without medical attention, the less likely it is that he’ll make a full recovery.

Scrooge shakes his head forcibly. That nagging little thought is getting harder and harder to dismiss.

He turns his attention to the moment, to the rain and the cold and to Webby, who still hasn’t answered him.

In fact, Webby's not said a word since she’d tripped Scrooge over that blasted rock, though they have been moving much more carefully since. Scrooge is grateful that she’s slowed the pace, but at the same time, part of him wants to urge her to hurry.

They’re wasting precious time.

Just as he’s about to shout for her again, Webby clinches him tightly. Scrooge can’t quite make out what she says, something about 'fall,' which sends alarm bells ringing through him. Before he can ask, she releases his hand, and suddenly, Scrooge is alone in the rain.

It’s disconcerting. He’s helpless in the dark, afraid to take even a hesitant step forward, equally unable to backtrack. His hearing, which he had fully relied upon up until moments ago, is swamped by the downpour, and Scrooge has the sudden sensation of being abandoned in a deep, dark well. He is being cut off entirely from the world, senses that he’d relied on to guide him home suddenly muffled and deceiving, as if Scrooge been packed tightly in cotton wool.

Scrooge stands very, very still. Rage builds in him. Here he is, Scrooge McDuck, blinded and abandoned on a cliffside in the rain without so much as an explanation.

Blinded.

It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to give voice to the word.

Cool, tiny fingers wrap themselves in his hands, startling Scrooge out of his feathers. “What?” he shouts. Really, the lass should know better than to mumble.

“I said ‘I think we’re close to the beach!’” Webby repeats, leaning in so that he can hear. “But the path to get there is steep. You may have to slide down.”

Now that she’s closer, Scrooge can feel her shivering. “Are ya cold, lass?” he asks, all his ire melting away as Webby shoves her body beneath his wings. Scrooge finds her hands. They are trembling.

“A bit,” she says, taking a moment to heat up in the swathes of Scrooge’s greatcoat.Then she rises, saying much morefirmly now, “But it doesn’t matter. We’ve got to get off this mountain. Come on!”

So Scrooge takes her chilly, rain-soaked wing, and slowly, carefully, they make their way down the cliffside, step by step, and then, scoot by scoot.

* * *

Scrooge is running on fumes.

The rain has abruptly died down from a torrent toa gentle trickle, as Quackatoan showers are known to do, leaving Scrooge cold, aching, and shivering.

Steam begins to rise from whatever vegetation is below them, and again the crickets and bugs have begun their songs. Scrooge knows it must be late. The sun had set long ago, or at least, it seems to Scrooge like long ago. He actually has no idea how long they’ve gone on like this, trampling through the dark, wet, and stinking jungle with just wee Webbigail to get them to safety.

“Ya alright, lass?” Scrooge asks after an eternity. Webby hasn’t spoken for ages. It’s unlike her to be silent for so long, little chatterbox that she is.

“Yes, sir,” she answers after a moment’s hesitation.

That does it. Scrooge stops, takes a deep breath, extending his fingers until they brush the side of the mountain and then sliding down with his back to the shale. He curls his wings around his knees and turns his face - hopefully - in Webby’s direction.

He hears her shuffle a bit, so Scrooge leans a little closer, close enough that he can hear Webby breathing.

“Lass,” Scrooge says gently, extending his hand in her general direction. 

“I’m fine,” Webby answers. Scrooge notes that she’s breathing fast, like she might be scared,and it clenches at his heart.

He reaches again, finally makes contact with Webby’s wing. She doesn’t resist him as he guides her awkwardly down into a sitting position.

Scrooge had no idea that taking care of kids relied so heavily on his sight. Again, he wishes he could speak withWebbigail eye to eye.

“Talk to me,” Scroogesays softly.

Near him, Webby sighs, seems to deflate a bit. “Now that the rain’s gone, I’ve been trying to track Polaris, like you said,” she says slowly. Scrooge gets the feeling that she’s fumbling with something in her hands. “We’re headed south, away from her and toward the rendezvous point.” Webby sighs, a heavy, defeated sigh that sends chills racing up Scrooge’s spine. He reaches for her again.

Just as Scrooge finds her hand and squeezes, Webby trembles.“But it’s hard to see her because the skies are obscured by the smoke,” she whispers.

Smoke.

Scrooge’s stomach plummets and all the feathers at the back of his neck stand on end. He’d been right then, about the mountain.

It’s going to blow, and soon.

Scrooge leans his head back against the mountainside. He feels Webby take a deep breath, and then slowly, carefully, she inches closer to him.

They are silent for a long time.

“I realize,” Scrooge ventures slowly, reaching in the dark for Webby’s hand, “That I’ve been hard on you.”

Webby is silent, waiting, listening.

Scrooge sighs. “What did you feel that night, during the solstice?”

The question startles him. Scrooge hadn’t even realized he’d wanted to know until the words left him.

For a long while, Webby doesn’t say anything. Then, finally, in a soft, strong voice that never wavers, she answers. “At first, I felt unbalanced.” Again, Scrooge notices her twisting something in her hands. “I felt like the entire island was in sync with the universe, and that I was outside of it all, watching.” She shudders, and Scrooge reaches for her, wrapping an arm around her tiny shoulders.

“I felt so small,” she admits weakly, and Scrooge realizes by the break in her voice that Webby is crying. “So insignificant,” she continues, shuddering.

Scrooge remembers that feeling. For him, it had come in waves of painful memories, an agonizing montage of all he’d lost. He pulls Webby closer, heart shattering in his chest. She’s only twelve, far too young to have encountered a truth as dangerous as this, the crippling realization that time is the great equalizer. In time, all you love will be lost, and yet, above you, the universe marches heedlessly on, dancing its joyous dance as the mortals watch jealously, brokenheartedly below. This, Scrooge realizes with a shudder, was the ‘great truth’ of Quackatoa’s solstice. 

He should never have brought her here.

“And then,” Webby says, stiffening under his wing. “Then you reached for my hand,” she whispers, pulling back just the tiniest bit, “And I felt better.”

Something warm and whole unfurls in Scrooge’s chest. When he’d reached for her that night, he’d thought to comfort her, to make her aware that she was not alone.

He hadn’t realized that he’d needed Webby’s hand just as much as she’d needed his.

Blinking blind eyes at that realization, Scrooge wraps her into a hug. “You’ve been so brave, a sheòid,” he tells her, so honestly that slipping into his native tongue seems as natural as breathing.

Webby tenses, then slowly, she relaxes against him, limp and clammy with cold. “I’ve got to be,” she whispers back.

“Well then,” Scrooge says, stands shakily, energy renewed. He’ll get his girl home, or die trying. “Up and at ‘em, Webby-lass!” he says in semblance of cheerfulness. Webby climbs slowly to her feet, and Scrooge’s heart bleeds for her, having to lead a blind man to safety on less than two hours of fitful sleep. “Let’s make for home.”

“Yes, sir,” Webby breathes, squeezing Scrooge’s hand as tightly as she can.

* * *

They’ve just set foot on the sandy east shore when the volcano blows. 

Scrooge feels it in his toes before they hear it. The entire island shudders, throwing Webby to the ground, and then, seconds later, Scrooge hears the strangest sound he’s heard in his life. He turns toward it, completely forgetting that he cannot see.

The volcano is erupting. The sound pulses with the shivers of the earth; a strange, rhythmic whoosh that reminds Scrooge vividly of one time he’d accompanied Della to her prenatal appointment.

 _Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh._

Scrooge falls to his knees, scrambling blindly to find purchase on the shifting sand beneath him, heart twisting as he inevitably drowns in memories of gravid Della, of her boys, his boys, alive and well and far, far from here.

Scrooge shakes his head hard. Safe, his boys are safe. He reaches, reaches in the darkness, and by some miracle, catches Webby’s shirt-sleeve.

She gasps at the strength of his grip.

“We don’t have much time,” Scrooge shouts over the pulse of the earth and the roar of the sea as he latches onto what he thinks might be Webby’s shoulders.

Webby doesn’t answer him, just shakes him off and once again weaves her fingers through his, tugging him forward.

Scrooge follows her.

Seconds later, that awful whooshing sound escalates to a grumble, then a quake, and finally, to a roar. That full-on, deafening roar builds and builds and builds, rising and expanding into one gigantic, earth-shattering detonation that throws both Scrooge and Webby of their feet.

Scrooge comes to alone in the sand. The explosion still isn’t over. The canon blasts keep coming, one after the other, louder and faster until the entire earth is shaking so intensely that no matter how Scrooge tries, he cannot find Webby’s hand until the volcano stills. Instead, Scrooge instinctively covers his head with his wings, hoping Webby’s had the sense to do the same. He tries to count the explosions, but there are too many, and it’s not long before he’s lost track. It sounds to him as if the entire island is being ripped apart, piece by piece.

And then, just like that, it stops. The ground groans and shifts beneath them, and behind him, Scrooge can hear the first chunks of flaming debris from the blasts falling to the earth.

The air is hot and sticky.

“Webby?” Scrooge shouts hoarsely. His throat is sore. His ears are ringing. He climbs awkwardly to his feet, holding on arm over his face and tapping his cane in trepidation to get his bearings.

“Webby-lass!” Scrooge shouts again, more desperately this time. They’d been far from the blast thanks to Webbigail’s perceptive management of the map, but they’re not our of danger, not by a long shot.

Blast his blinded eyes! He’s got to find her.

“Fine,” Webby chokes from behind him. Scrooge whirls, reaching, and makes contact with her shoulder. He pulls her close, not sure of the tremor he feels is of the earth or from Webby’s skin.

The stand there for a moment, together, listening to the aftermath of the blast. Scrooge holds Webby’s hand tight, wondering what all she’s seeing. He barely hears when she finally says, “The entire east side blew.”

Scrooge closes his blind eyes and exhales deeply, again thankful that Webby had the sense to lead them away from the path of the volcano.

But they aren’t safe, not yet.

“We’ve got to get to high ground,” Scrooge tells her, taking both of her hands into his. Again, he notices that Webby’s fingers are too cold, despite the stifling heat in the air. He grips her tighter. “I know you’re afraid, lass,” he says softly, reaching up to find Webby’s cheek. “I’m afraid, too.”

Webby nods into his cheek.

“Okay, then,” Scrooge says, taking a deep breath. “We’re not in the path of the magma, which is good, but we’re not out of danger. Volcanoes erupt more than just rocks and lava, Webby.They pump out toxins and fumes that poison the atmosphere - or people!”Scrooge pulls her closer, pointing a finger in the direction that he assumes is west, toward the mountain. “Look around, lass, and tell me what you see?”

Webby shivers. “I see smoke and ash,” she whispers. “There’s a huge plume of it high in the sky, covering the stars and the moon, but it’s also spreading, falling.”

Scrooge smiles a sad smile. “Exactly my point, Webby-lass. That gas is going to sink, and it’s going to accumulate in the lowlands for days, weeks.” Scrooge sighs heavily. “If we’re going to survive until Launchpad comes, Webby, we’ve got to get above it.”

He feels Webby nod, and Scrooge grits his teeth at what must come next.

How can I ask any more of her,he wonders.

But there’s no choice.

“Webby,” he says softly, cradling her shoulder and cheek as the gentle as he knows how.

Beneath his fingers, Webby shrinks back, shuddering and wrapping her thin jacket tightly around her body. Scrooge wonders how she girl could be so cold despite the stifling heat in the air.

Oh.

Not cold, Scrooge realizes.

Terrified.

Webby is terrified.

Just as Scrooge is wondering what he can possibly say, Webby seems to swallow her fear. She straightens, shaking her head and pulling out of Scrooge’s grip. “There are some caves that overlook the beach,” she says determinedly. “I saw them when Launchpad landed us.”

Scrooge’s chest bursts with pride. This is the Webbigail that he’s come to know!

“I think they’re high enough to be safe,” Webby continues, voice rising in renewed energy as she works out a plan. She still sounds a little shaken, but determined, and Scrooge loves her for it.

Scrooge can’t help it; he squeezes her tight. Webby winces, but doesn’t pull away. “I’ll find us one to hole up in until Launchpad comes,” she whispers into his ear.

“That’s my girl,” Scrooge says as he releases her.

* * *

When Webby isn’t back in twenty minutes, Scrooge begins to worry.

When Webby isn’t back by thirty minutes, Scrooge begins to pace.

When Webby isn’t back by 45 minutes, Scrooge finds himself fighting a battle against all-out panic. He’s been alone on a beach, listening to the violent creaks and groans of the island as it settles into is new shape, hearing the whistling pop of flaming debris as rocks and soot land on the fields around him, feeling the temperature increase with every small fire that breaks out nearby.

One of those flaming pieces of debris lands a mere 20 inches from his foot. Scrooge kicks it hard as he can, flame and all, then unwinds the linen from his eyes. Sun or no sun, it’s been nearly and hour since Webby had promised to be “back soon.”

He’s got to find her.

Scrooge unties his blindfold, blinking as the muted swirls of color settle into some semblance or shapes. That’ll do, he tells himself. That’ll have to do, or Scrooge will die trying.

Scrooge turns, shaking his eyes and furrowing his brow. He remembers Webby hand been facing vaguely ‘that way.’

Scrooge sighs. If it’s good enough for Webby, it’s good enough for him.

The path isn’t quite as steep as he feared, but still, any climb is a bit awkward when you’re newly blind. Scrooge takes him time, ensuring three point contact with the rock at all times and making good use of his cane.

He’s not sure how he finds her. Sheer determination, maybe, or perhaps a Christmas miracle. How doesn’t matter; when he sees the vague white ball settled at the back of the cave that can only be Webby, Scrooge doesn’t even try to hide his tears of relief.

She must have fallen asleep.

Relieved beyond measure, Scrooge comes closer, reaching blindly to wrap Webby in a hug.

He’s startled when she flinches away from him. The rejection stings, and Scrooge takes a careful step back.“Lass, what have I done?” he asks, settling beside her as smoothly as he can.

“Nothing, sir,” says Webby softly. There’s no inflection, no expression in her tone, and this makes Scrooge worry.She reaches for Scrooge’s pack. “I’ll just get our things together for camp. You just rest.”

Scrooge knows that his little girl is hurting, somehow, and he feels powerless to fix it.“Webby, lass,” he ventures, re-tying the linen as neatly as he can around his eyes. “What’s wrong, love?”

Webby settles down with a heavy sigh. Then, slowly, softly, she says, “You’re missing Christmas with your family, and it’s my fault.”

Everything comes crashing down on Scrooge, and just like that, he understands what’s bothering Webby.

Ah, lass. He should have fixed this months, years ago.

Outside the cave, rain begins to fall.

Scrooge moves closer to Webby, wraps a wing around her to draw her near. He does not miss the way she hisses softly under her breath, and he kicks himself for it.

He’s hurt her so much more deeply than he’d ever imagined.

Scrooge sighs, releasing Webby, but does not move away. “Webbigail,” he ventures slowly, absently fiddling with the buttons of his greatcoat.

He is met with silence.

Scrooge presses on anyway. “Webbigail Vanderquack,” he starts again, taking a deep breath and steadying his voice. It’s on thing to contemplate his regard, his love, for his family, but it’s quite another to speak it aloud.

Scrooge knows, though, that this needs to be said. “Webby,” he starts again, reaching for her wing. “I need you to understand something.”

“Yes sir,” Webby whispers,

“I love you, dearheart,” Scrooge manages roughly. “You’re as much my niece,m, as much my family as Donald and the boys.”

Webby shivers in his arms.

Scrooge leans closer, whispering into Webby’s ear. “I know what’s got you so out of sorts. I know I’ve said things, done things in the past that have made it seem as if I consider you a...” Scrooge waves his hands, at a loss. “…a bit of a burden, or an afterthought. And I know you’re worried for me, for your brothers, for your Gran, but let me tell you something important, sweetheart.”

“What?” Webby whispers.

“I’m Scrooge McDuck,” Scrooge says, bumping Webby gently in the shoulder. She flinches a bit at the motion, so Scrooge holds her closer, still whispering. “I’m tougher than the toughies, smarter that the smarties, but I’m even better than that, do you know why?”

Webby does not answer.

Scrooge continues on. “Because I’ve got you.” He squeezes her gently again. “You, Webbigail Vanderquack. You’ve always been right by my side. Always right there when I’ve needed you most, and since you’ve been a little girl, Webby,I’ve been too blind to see it.”

Webby giggles a little at this, and Scrooge finds himself grinning.“Listen to me, Webbigail Delilah Vanderquack, you are every bit my girl, do you hear? I see no difference between you and Huey and Dewey and Louie.” Scrooge scoffs, warming to the conversation. “What’s blood anyway? Just some red stuff in there?” He pinches at Webby’s shoulder. “Keeps you alive, sure, but it’s messy. It’s far better to create our own families, rather than be miserable in the ones were born into.” Carefully, Scrooge extends a hand to rest on Webby’s cheek. “Webby, lass, I’ve been meaning to ask for ages. Will you be my niece, truly? No more of this Mr. McDuck nonsense. That drives me batty! I want you for good, to officially be a part of this family who considers you one of their own.” Scrooge swallows sharply, then shakily adds, “I consider you my own, Webby, no matter what horrible things I’ve said in the past, and I’ll sign whatever legal documents it takes for you to believe me.”

Webby trembles again, but this time, Scrooge hears the soft sigh, and he gently squeezes her hand.

“Do you mean it?” Webby ventures slowly, hunched over as if she were afraid Scrooge would box her ears for asking.

Scrooge shudders at the fact that Webby would even ask. “With everything in me, lass, I mean it. You’re family, Webby, and I’m sorry, so, so sorry that I ever said otherwise.”

He pulls her close, then, hugging her tight to his chest, and Webby shudders again, but this time, instead of flinching away, she curls into him, burying her face into Scrooge’s cheek and sobbing.

Scrooge is alarmed. In all Webby’s life, he’s never seen her cry. He places his hands awkwardly on Webby’s back. “Why in blazes are you crying, love?” he asks, at a complete loss.

Webby shivers. “Because I’ve always wanted a family of my own, Uncle Scrooge.”

Scrooge absolutely melts, wrapping his arms around his little girl and pulling his greatcoat over their faces to shield them from the toxic fumes. “And you’ll always have me, lass,” Scrooge smiles, smoothing the downy feathers of her forehead.

“Okay,” Webby responds drowsily.

They lay there like that for a long time, huddled together under Scrooge’s greatcoat. Scrooge does his best to make a plan for surviving the next day, but between the patter of acid rain and the quick, sharp breaths of his niece, and her cold little body resting so comfortably on his, Scrooge gives in to the haze of sleep, abandoning all thoughs of tomorrow.

* * *

That morning, Scrooge is awakened by the thrum of engines on the horizon.

Launchpad!

He leaps to his feet, completely forgetting his blasted eyes. “Webby!” he shouts, shaking her shoulder forcibly. “Webby, he’s come for us! Launchpad is here! I hear the Sunchaser!”

Webby does not move.

Scrooge drops to his knees, torn between waking Webby from her dead sleep and running blindly from the cave to flag down the Sunchaser. He shakes Webby harder, thumping at her chest, desperate, and she groans, a choked little sound that sends alarm bells ringing through Scrooge.

A decent night’s sleep has worked wonders for him. Scrooge's mind is clearer than it’s felt in days.  

Suddenly, Scrooge remembers.

All of the subtle little signs. Webby breathing heavily, flinching away from him, careful to keep Scrooge on her right side as they navigated the treacherous terrain. Her soft voice, often tearful, often shaking. Her clumsiness and her icy fingers, cold and clammy even in the stifling heat of the jungle. Webby completely at the mercy of the geyser, flying through the air like a rag doll.

It all hits Scrooge at once, and he falls to his knees, wrapping Webbigail in his arms.

Oh, gods, please.

How could he have not seen?

Scrooge takes a sharp breath. “Webbigail,” he breathes, running his fingers along her body to locate the injury that he knows he will find. How’d she managed to keep something so serious from him?

And why?

Ah, there.

Scrooge’s fingers stop just at the base of Webby’s left ribs. She’d cut a strip of linen for herself, too, winding it around her back and belly. Carefully, Scrooge’s fingers glance over the wound. Webby’s entire belly is distended and stiff, not a good sign, and below the expertly placed bandage, Scrooge can feel something wet, oozing.

The truth of Webby’s sobering injuries sucks all the joy of a possible rescue right out of Scrooge.

She’s been bleeding out this whole time.

Scrooge falls to his knees, heedless of Launchpad’s plane. He lifts Webby’s head, shaking her as hard as he dares. Clumsily, Scrooge searches for Webby’s throat, brushing his fingers against her pulse point, all the while whispering her name and willing himself not to tremble.

There.

Webby’s pulse is slow, far too slow. It flutters gently beneath Scrooge’s fingers, butterfly fragile, as if the tiniest bit of pressure might crush her to dust.

Scrooge rises to his feet in a panic. He’s got minutes, an hour at most, to save Webby’s life.

He may already be too late.

He stumbles to the edge of the cave, holding his wing to his bill to deter some of the smoke, and waves his greatcoat in the open.

It’s hopeless. The roar of the Sunchaser is nearly gone, receding into the study patter of the toxic rain so quickly that Scrooge wonders whether he’d heard it it all.

He returns to sit with Webbigail, hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead. He should have known, should have realized that something was off with Webbigail. He's betrayed Bentina's trust deeply. Why is it that he ruins everything he touches? “I’m so, so sorry, Webbigail.”

A powerful shiver that rips through Webby’s body is his only response.

Scrooge lays near her, wrapping his wings round her tiny body for warmth. and remembers.

He remembers every time he’d ever written-off, under-estimated, misjudged this phenomenal little girl. He remembers every time, more than once, more than several times that Webby’s knowledge had saved the lives of his boys, had brought them home glowing and happy to recount their adventures with their Uncle Scrooge. It had all been Webby’s doing. She should be celebrated many times over as a hero! But she’d even said it herself.

She’d only wanted to be loved.

Scrooge snorts through his tears. Silly old man. He’d been blind long before he lost his vision on this gods-forsaken island. 

"I love you, a sheòid," He tells Webby one last time.

She does not respond.

But the roar of the Sunchaser, which had receded to a distant hum, does. It swirls, then disappears. Scrooge places his hand on Webby’s brow and brushes back the downy feathers there.

That’s it, then.

And then, miracle of miracles, the roar of the engines rise again, crescendoing toward the cave.

Scrooge has never moved faster. He is on his feet, whipping his red greatcoat back and forth and shouting as the plane bursts from the smoke and rounds the south saves, spiraling down as it hunts for a landing spot.

Scrooge brushes the tears that have leaked from his eyes. Slowly, gently, he picks up Webby, careful not to misalign her spine too much, careful to keep the bleeding to the least amount possible. “It’s okay, love,” he whispers, hoping against hope that he's not too late. “It’s okay."

Launchpad has come to bring them home.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Awareness comes slowly.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Something doesn’t feel right. The infernal beeping speeds as Scrooge’s temper flares. He groans, clenches his eyes shut, and flops onto his belly.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The tone only continues to rise as he moves. Now that he’s a little more awake, Scrooge can feel the flutter of his own heart beating tremulously in his chest.

He’s in a hospital, he realizes suddenly. The incessant bloop-bloop of the monitors and the stiff mattress that lumps uncomfortably beneath his spine is proof enough of that.

Scrooge blinks, focuses past the hazy fog of the medicine - now that he’s somewhat awake, he can feel the cool drizzle of the IV drip as it pumps him full of god-knows-what mind-numbing concoction. Memories drift past him, fleeting and dim as they skirt the edges of his consciousness.

_Why can't he remember?_

The simmering dread that’s slowly rising in him ensures that his heart continues to race, monitors above him screaming in warning, blinking and blaring with enough volume and tenacity to summon a dozen nurses.

Scrooge furrows his brow and twitches his feet. Moving is hard work and requires intense concentration, but he’s not in pain, thankfully. There’s still the matter of that bone-deep dread to consider - uninjured as Scrooge may seem, something must have happened to him if his current heart rate is anything to go by. Stomach tightening in distant knots of half-remembered fear, Scrooge stretches gently, first his legs, and then his arms. After a bit of this, all at once, his muscles seem to blink online, and Scrooge becomes one with his body once more.

He sits up in a rush, squinting against the glaring white lights, flinching his shoulders and flailing his arms. “What in blue blazes -” he starts, but is cut off as a pair of green arms wrap firmly around his middle.

“You’re okay,” Louie breathes, clamping onto Scrooge so tightly that it's impossible to loosen him into a more comfortable position. Scrooge can hardly breathe. Louie shudders, and Scrooge notices the tears that well in his eyes and drip down his bill.

“Of course I am,” Scrooge finally manages to croak past the lump in his throat and the cloud of silly drugs that shroud his memory. He wraps his arms gently around Louie and pats his back between the shoulder blades in the way that had always comforted Della when she was upset. “I’m Scrooge McDuck, remember?”

But Louie only clings to him tighter.

Scrooge blinks. Something serious must have happened for indifferent, cool-man Louie to be clutching his Uncle Scrooge so tightly.

_He hardly even likes me!_

Scrooge rests a comforting hand around his nephew’s shoulder, pulling Louie closer to his chest as he glances around the room. He notices Donald sitting in a chair beside his bed, fast asleep with his bill curled into his shoulder.

It looks uncomfortable.

Try as he might to figure out what in blue blazes has happened here, Scrooge’s memories hit a blank, white wall. It must be some powerful stuff that they’ve got me on, Scrooge muses. In desperation, he shakes his addled head hard enough to give himself a lingering migraine, but the motion jogs no context clues about the missing memories.

Well, there's nothing for it. He'll have to ask Donald.

“Don-” Scrooge croaks, rasping against the suspicious hoarseness of his throat, and shoot fire and acid, if his voice doesn’t come out just a bit pleading.

Donald awakens instantly, jerking to awareness with such force that his feet go flying and the chair rocks backward. “Wak!’ he cries as he crashes to the floor.

Scrooge hardly has time to roll his eyes before Donald is back on his feet, rushing to Scrooge’s bedside and taking his hands. “You’re awake,” he says pointlessly.

“That I am,” says Scrooge a bit impatiently. He can clearly see the worry in Donald’s expression, notes the redness around his eyes and the tightness in his shoulders that proves at least one sleepless night, possibly more.

Wait.

He _sees._

_I can see._

“My eyes!” Scrooge gasps, bringing his hands to his face slowly. He counts his fingers once, then again, slowly, heedless of the fact that they're trembling. One, two, three, and a thumb.

As it should be.

Donald nods, a small smile quirking his bill. “It worked, then. The doctors weren’t sure.”

Scrooge ignores him. Fragments are filtering in slowly, half-memories ghosting at the edge of his thoughts, swirling just beyond the grasp of his consciousness.

It’s infuriating.

Scrooge closes his eyes, concentrating. The sudden absence of the harsh hospital light makes something click deep in the recesses of his mind.

_Darkness._

_Blind._

_I was blind._

But there’s something else, something important.

“They gave you something to help you relax,” Donald is explaining, his grating voice invading Scrooge’s concentration. “They said you may have trouble remembering.”

 _Trouble remembering, my tail feathers!_ Scrooge growls, low and deep in his throat. He reaches up to adjust the clamp that slows his IV rate, slapping his hands on his ears and turning his back on Donald to block out his incessant squawking, squints his newly repaired eyes tightly shut, and focuses.

* * *

 

_Webbigail!” He cries, fighting against the many sets of hands that are attempting to hold him. “You’ve got to help her! She’s injured; she needs medical attention!”_

_He’s pulled backward by his armpits, his fingers losing contact with Webby. Webby, who’s hands were clammy and limp in his own._

_“No, please!” Scrooge pleads, struggling, reaching._

_He doesn’t remember greeting Launchpad or the mercifully quick flight to the hospital. There was only Webby and Scrooge, and Scrooge clinging Webby’s body. She’d been cold and stiff, silent and unmoving in his arms._

_“Webbigail! Please!” he shouts. “My niece. My only girl! Please, help her!”_

_“We are, Mr. McDuck. She’s in good hands,” a placating male voice reassures into his ear._

_Ahead of him, far away where Webby is, Scrooge is bombarded by a cacophony of activity._

_“Female duck, pre-adolescent, penetrating trauma to the abdomen. Where’s anesthesia?”_

_“Here. God, she needs blood. What’s her IV status? I’ll start a cordis if she’s too dry.”_

_“Calling blood bank now. Mass transfusion protocol has been initiated. We've got four units of O neg on their way up.”_

_“16 gauge to the left AC. Where’s that blood?”_

_“Use LR until it comes. Somebody page Scott that we’ve got a bleeder on the table in room three. Spleen, I’d bet money. She’s not a candidate for IR. And let’s secure that airway…”_

_Something sharp jabs into Scrooge’s left shoulder and he stumbles, falling backward into the arms of the conspirators who’d restrained him._

_The last thing he hears before his brain falls blessedly silent is the heavy, final clang of the trauma bay doors as Webby and the trauma team disappear behind them._

* * *

 

Webby.

It all comes back to Scrooge in a rush, a painful swirling firestorm of emotions and scents and sounds.

Quackatoa. The solstice. The volcano. My eyes. Webby.

Webby.

Scrooge sits up like a bullet. Louie lets out a startled squawk of indignation as he’s thrown backward.

Scrooge ignores him. His head swims at the sudden movement, but he won’t be contained, not now. “Where is she?” he growls.

Donald lays a soothing hand on Scrooge’s shoulder. “They took her to surgery, Uncle Scrooge.”

 _Yes, I gathered that much_ , Scrooge doesn’t say. He'd rather not dwell on the memories he's just dug up. Instead, Scrooge does his best to sit up further, struggling against the side rail of the rickety little hospital bed.

Donald stops him with gentle pressure on his chest. “She’s okay,” he says softly. “The nurse just called with an update. They stopped the bleeding, and she’s in recovery now. We can see her in just a few minutes.”

This news should relax him, but Scrooge finds that he can’t lie back and wait, despite his lingering nausea and the relentless pounding in his head. Blast this bloody side rail! He gives up fumbling for the release hatch at the bottom of the railing and instead swings both of his legs over the entire contraption, rocking the bed and setting his blasted IV pump beeping.

Winded, humiliated, and mildly nauseated, Scrooge leans back on his elbows, knees in the air, feet splayed toward the ceiling. Donald is frozen with his hands poised to help and his eyebrows raised. Louie is hiding behind him wearing an expression that implies that he hasn’t quite decided if it’s safe to laugh or not. To their left, the IV pump continues its shrill song.

Scrooge doesn’t care that he looks ridiculous. He doesn't care about any of it. “Take me to her,” he demands roughly.

Donald heaves a defeated sigh and easily lets down the side rail. When he moves to untangle the IV tubing, Scrooge huffs, rolls his eyes, and yanks silly thing out of his hand, catheter and all. He flings the entire apparatus backward onto the bed, where it continues to contentedly dribble saline into the sheets.

“Gross,” Louie moans, eyeballing the little puddle of saline with distaste.

“Let’s go,” Scrooge growls, using the corner of his wretched hospital gown to hold gentle pressure on the back of his hand.

Donald bites back a groan, realizing that some battles are best left unfought. There’s no sense arguing with Uncle Scrooge when he’s like this.

Everything is fine.

He takes Uncle Scrooge by the clean arm, motioning for Louie to follow, and then, together, the three of them make their way to Webby’s recovery room.

* * *

 

The recovery room nurses don’t seem to bat an eye at Mr. McDuck and his entourage.

“Respers 16 and even,” one calls to another, who dutifully writes something down on a sheet of yellow carbon paper.

Scrooge tunes them out and turns his attention to the little girl laying in the bed. Webby looks very small and very pale. Wires and monitors are crisscrossing all over her body, tubes and drains exiting her chest and her belly and god-knows-where-else.

Scrooge’s breath catches in his throat as Webby begins to shiver.

“It’s okay,” a voice reassures him, startlingly close. Scrooge jumps, pulling his hands away from the bed as if bitten. He looks up, notices the nurse who has been standing at his shoulder the entire time. He’s drawing something out of a vial, but his voice is warm, reassuring. “Shivering after anesthesia is normal. I’m giving her some medicine for it now.”

Scrooge nods tersely, keeping his eyes locked on the tiny figure in the bed. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Seconds later, Webby’s breaths even out and her tremors subside.

Scrooge isn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Webby's trembling is the first sign of life Scrooge has seen from her since their awful morning on Quackatoa.

“I’ll let you have a little space,” the nurse offers after a moment. Scrooge nods again. There’s a bit of commotion beside him, a stifled word of protest as Louie is led away, the scraping sound of a curtain being drawn, the rustle of papers, the click-clack of a keyboard to his left. It’s not exactly privacy, but somehow, Scrooge finds that he’s grateful for the support, such as it is.

He doesn’t think he’s quite ready to be alone with Webby.

Not like this.

Scrooge takes one shaking breath, and then another. All of the energy seems to have been drained from him, leaving Scrooge feeling hollow and scraped raw. He stands next to Webby’s bed for a long time, leaning heavily against the side rail.

Webby looks so small. She’s entirely too still, too pale, dwarfed by the pile of blankets that swarth her, stifled by the oppressive gloom that hangs so heavily over hospitals.

 _This is my fault,_ Scrooge reminds himself. Oh, he’d known it, but faced with the immediate and inescapable reality of his failures drives the point home all the clearer. _I did this._

 Scrooge shakes his aching head, hardening his heart and forcing himself to look at his niece, the precious little girl that he’d claimed for his own. Now that the trembling has stopped, Webby’s expression is peaceful, slack. Scrooge thinks that she could be sleeping, if not for the oxygen mask that rests unevenly on her bill.

Scrooge finds that he can’t stand it any longer; he reaches over the railing, past the tubes and monitors and mask, and rests his hand on the downy feathers of Webby’s forehead. She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t move, but Scrooge thinks he feels something drawn in her jaw relax a bit, imagines that she might barely, imperceptibly turn her cheek into his touch.

Scrooge lets out a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. There's something deeply satisfying about watching Webby sleep, so Scrooge draws up a chair and settles in, keeping his palm at the plane of Webby’s temple as he cards his fingers through her hair. She seems to be resting peacefully. Scrooge contents himself by counting each breath after gentle breath, knowing that finally, for the first time in days, Webby is exactly where she needs to be - out of danger.

After a long moment, Scrooge lets his hand fall, absently tracing the wires that crisscross over her chest to monitor her heartbeat, which, to him, seems a bit fast. He listens to the rhythm of the EKG for a long time, each little blip on the screen irrefutable evidence that his girl is fine, healthy, alive.

It’s both a relief and a powerful reminder of all he could have lost.

“I’m so sorry, Webby-lass,” he sighs, pulling closer to her bed so that he can whisper into Webby’s ear. She doesn’t respond, but somehow, Scrooge can’t help but continue. “This trip was for you. We should have left the moment the moon sank below the horizon.”  

The room is still. Above him, the monitor blips. Below him, Webby breathes.

Scrooge finds that the honesty isn’t as painful as he’d expected it to be, his words not nearly as stilted as they’d been on Quackatoa. It seems that once loosed, the truth flows freely, all of his deepest thoughts and rawest emotions exploding from him like lava from a pit.

“I should have known,” Scrooge tells her, voice rising as he fights against the lump in his throat. “I’m Scrooge McDuck! I should have slowed down, should have stopped, should’ve read the signs.”

What had he been trying to prove? That he was a fearless adventurer? That he was the richest duck in the world twice over? That he was above the very laws of nature?

_That he could impress a twelve-year-old girl?_

That one stings. Scrooge heaves another shaking breath, gripping Webby’s limp fingers as tightly as he dares. “I’m not…” he chokes, struggling with what he needs to say. “Webbigail. Lass. I’m sorry! I’m short-sighted. I’m greedy. I take risks that I can’t afford!”  

Scrooge pulls his glasses off and lets them dangle from his right hand. He rests his forehead on the pile of scratchy blankets that cover Webby’s legs.

“I could have killed you, lass,” Scrooge whispers, and the confession hurts more than he’d like to admit. He screws his eyes shut. “I could have killed ya, and you’d have let me.”

He deflates, all of the breath leaving his body until he is only a bag of bones, brittle and dry and weary. He hasn’t felt this small, this uncertain, this unworthy in a long, long time.

“I’m not who you think I am, Webby-lass,” he admits, choking back tears. He grips her cold fingers in his own, notes the delicate size of her hands as he weaves theirs together.

“But I’d like to be,” he vows, leaning close to whisper into her ear.

Scrooge lies like that for a long time, bill to where he assumes are Webby’s knees, listening to the sound of her breathing, reliving their quest on Quackatoa. He sighs, shoulders trembling at the weight of his confessions, forehead buried in a pile of scratchy hospital blankets.

He's interrupted by a gentle tap on the shoulder. Scrooge leaps to his feet, whirling round in an instant, fists poised for a fight.

Only to find that he’s facing a tall, well-dressed doctor in a white coat. The doctor offers his palms, fingers spread wide in the universal gesture of placation, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild surprise. “Mr. McDuck? A word, if I may.”

Scrooge straightens, dropping his fists and drawing up the tatters of his dignity. He nods curtly.

The doctor smiles at Scrooge and offers his hand. “Dr. Mitch Ogawa,“ he says, pumping Scrooge’s arm enthusiastically. “I was Webbigail’s surgeon this evening. I’ve followed your career since I was a child. It’s a shame we’ve met under such grim circumstances.”

“Yes,” Scrooge says slowly, assessing the strange man. “I have a few questions.”

The surgeon, or Mitch, as he prefers to be called, is clean-cut and soft-spoken, and obviously some sort of dog, though Scrooge does not recognize the breed. He allows himself to be led by Mitch into a little waiting hall, where they both sit down, Mitch looking effortlessly regal in his crisp white coat, with his high pointed ears pricked forward and his long legs crossed casually in front of him.

Scrooge finds that it’s quite challenging to look the least bit distinguished in an open-backed hospital gown, but he tries anyway, sitting up and making sure to keep Mitch within eye-level. He does his best to forget the garish gown, straightening it neatly over his knees as he taps one splat-less foot impatiently on the floor. He misses his hat and cane.

Mitch quirks his head to the side, indicating Scrooge’s left hand. “You’re bleeding.”

 _Drat that IV!_ Scrooge quickly wraps his wrist in his patterned hospital gown - Sati save us, are those stars?!? - and presses hard, all shards of dignity evaporating as he notes the amused gleam in Mitch’s eyes and the dribbles of blood that seep lazily through the thin fabric.

Scrooge seethes. Bloody hospitals!

Mitch clears his throat and leans forward, suddenly the picture of professionalism. “That’s a tough little girl you’ve got there, sir,” he says seriously. “When she came to us, she’d lost nearly half of her blood volume, and she was dehydrated on top of that.” Mitch sighs and rubs a paw behind his ear, clearly a nervous gesture. “Am I to understand that it was she who led you from the site of the eruption?”

Scrooge deflates a bit, shame clawing in his gut as he remembers how he’d ignored that nagging little voice at the back of his mind and instead pushed Webby onward. “Yes,” he whispers. “She saved us both, brave little lass.” Scrooge glances back up at Mitch with wide, pleading eyes.

Mitch stares back, expressionless except for his eyebrows that quirk gently in question.

“Dr. Ogawa,” Scrooge starts, and blast this honesty! He wonders briefly if he’s been cursed.

Dr. Ogawa waits, and Scrooge finds that he has no choice but to continue. “I didn’t know,” he whispers, wondering if he’s trying to convince the doctor or himself. He sighs, offering his hands in surrender. “It’s no excuse, sir, but I want you to understand that I didn’t realize the extent of Webbigail’s injuries.” _Or that she had any at all,_ he doesn’t tack on.

Scrooge hangs his head in shame, covers his face with his hands, lost in those last dark hours on the beach. He fixes his gaze on Mitch’s feet, notices for the first time that the doctor is wearing a pair of white wellies, of all things.

They are suspiciously clean.

The thought makes Scrooge’s stomach church uncomfortably. _If only he’d thought. If only he’d checked!_

But Mitch only smiles a sad smile and shakes his head. “Don't take that burden on your shoulders, Mr. McDuck, please. It was clear that Webby had gone to some great effort to hide it from you. When we got her to the operating table, we had to cut her own dressing from the wound.” He shakes his head, eyes distant in memory. “She’d done an excellent job…” Mitch winces, then forces himself to continue as he meets Scrooge’s eyes apologetically, “…keeping things contained.”

Scrooge shudders and turns away. Mitch lays a heavy paw on Scrooge’s shoulder. “But listen, Mr. McDuck, what I came here to tell you is good news. Webby’s going to be just fine. It was touch and go there for a moment, but we got her stabilized, stopped the bleeding, and she responded beautifully.” Mitch laughs breathlessly, awestruck at the resilience of the avian body. “We even managed to save her spleen! She had a couple of fractured ribs and a punctured lung - that’s the chest tube that you’ll see on her left - and she’ll be down for a while as she recovers, but it won’t be long, Mr. McDuck, before she’s blazing the trail again!”

Scrooge gives a little shake of his head at this. He doubts he’ll have Webbigail blazing anywhere anytime soon.

Not after this.

Mitch stands awkwardly, seeming to read that Scrooge needs some time alone. He leaves a scrap of paper with his personal cell number, just in case Scrooge thinks of any questions during the night. Scrooge thanks him tonelessly, and Mitch turns to go.

He hesitates at the door, pausing to untuck something in his shirt pocket. Slowly, he unfolds the little scrap of paper and offers it to Scrooge.

“She had this clamped in her hand the entire time,” Mitch holds a battered little scrap of paper between his forefinger and thumb for Scrooge to see. “She was holding on so tight that we couldn’t get it loose until she was asleep on the table. Figured you might like to keep it for her.”

Scrooge doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, can hardly breathe as Mitch presses the little wad of paper into his palm.

“Okay, then,” Mitch rises and backs away, pawing at the edge of the door. He pauses there, as if he’s uncomfortable leaving the situation. Scrooge stands motionless, face blank, giving the surgeon nothing to work with. After a moment, Mitch sighs, again running his paw behind his ear and clearing his throat awkwardly. “Have a good evening, Mr. McDuck.”

Scrooge listens for the snick of the latch as it engages the lock. He listens for the even thump, thump, thump of Dr. Ogawa’s receding footsteps. Then, Scrooge listens for the silence.

Then, only then, does he turn his attention to the little slip of paper in his hand. He unfolds it gently, careful not to pull too hard at the creased and torn edges, careful not to smear the tiny splatters of bloodstains that have begun to dry.

McGraph’s map.

Webby had held on to it all that time. Scrooge reads her desperation in the new crinkles that line the page from where Webby had clenched the map in her fists. He reads her determination in the little smears of blood from where Webby had pressed her hands to her side to stifle the pain of her injuries. He reads the ferocity and fearlessness and grit of his little girl in the fact that she never let go of her end of the bargain, not even as she was dying.

Dying, Scrooge knows now.

_His little girl had been dying._

Scrooge straightens, carefully folding the map and resting it safely in the breast pocket of his gown. He exits the waiting area room, dodging the nurses and families and the heavy double doors, absently wandering the empty hallways until he comes to a row of windows that look down over a city shrouded in the dank fog of the evening.

Scrooge leans his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, draws his shoulders in like a small child, and cries.

* * *

 

Scrooge returns to Webby’s recovery room, stuffy and bleary-eyed, to find Donald and the boys are already waiting for him, each looking expectantly toward the double-doors as if Scrooge is equally liable to make an appalling scene or to disappear entirely into a blue puff of smoke.

Despite his dour mood, Scrooge feels a smile tugging at his bill. He sits sedately in a sticky, faux leather chair at the corner of the room, determined to subvert their expectations.

The nurse is there again, the same one as before. After a moment, Scrooge rises, ignoring the four pairs of eyes that follow him warily as he moves toward Webby’s bed.

He reaches for the nurse’s hand. “Scrooge McDuck,” he offers to the slack-jawed nurse. He brushes off any comments before they arise by his attention to Webby. “When will she wake up?”

The nurse snaps his attention back to his patient, and Scrooge finds himself grateful that this one, at least, has a decent grasp of priorities. “Not long now, Mr. McDuck,” he says softly. “Kids, especially kids who have emergency surgery like Webby, tend to sleep for a while afterward. Anesthesia is hard on them, and we are keeping her on some pain medicine so that she’ll be as comfortable as possible when she wakes.”

Scrooge finds that he’s wringing his hands in front of his lap, a nervous habit that he thought he’d given up decades ago. Today, he cannot seem to stop. “Will…” he starts, steels himself, then continues. “Will she be in much pain?”

The nurse, Hasan, Scrooge notices, offers an apologetic grimace. “Some pain is to be expected after any surgery, and a surgery like Webbigail’s…." Hasan motions with one paw toward Webby's left side. "Her incision… well, it isn’t exactly small.” Somber brown eyes lock onto Scrooge McDuck’s. “But I promise you, sir, we will do everything we can to keep Miss Webby as comfortable as possible.” His expression softens as if he can read Scrooge’s guilt in the set of his shoulders, his grief in the shadows of his eyes. “She’ll be a bit groggy when she wakes, sir, but it won’t be long now. Kids tend to shake these drugs off pretty quickly.” He straightens, adjusting the drip rate of Webby’s IV, then rests his fingers on the tubing, looking contemplatively at his patient. “If it’s any comfort to you, sir, it’s unlikely that she’ll remember any of this, or even what happened before.” And with that, Hasan shrugs, pauses to make a few notes on his clipboard, and then moves toward his computer.

“Thank you,” Scrooge replies gruffly, brushing a hand against Hasan's forearm as he retreats. He means it.

As Hasan disappears behind the curtain, Scrooge notices for the first time Huey edging toward him. He realizes with a sudden jolt of clarity that this is the quietest he’s ever seen his nephews, even in the aftermath of his outburst during the crash of the Sunchaser. Without a second thought, Scrooge extends a wing toward his oldest, welcoming him in. Huey freezes, eyes darting from the ground, to Uncle Scrooge, then back to the ground again.

“Huey,” Scrooge prompts, heart aching at the hesitation and what it implies, and this time, Huey rushes to him, biting back tears and burying his face into Scrooge’s chest. “I was following the eruption coverage the entire time,” Huey confesses into Scrooge’s feathers. He’s trembling. “I was so worried. I even emailed the vice-president of Indonesia to see if they had resources available to rescue you.” Huey shudders a tremorous sigh, then, defeated and sniffling, manages to look his uncle in the face. His dark eyes are shining with tears. “But they didn’t even respond.”

Scrooge lifts a hand to rub the downy feathers of Huey’s forehead, dislodging his cap as he does. "It's okay, lad. You did well."

To his left, he notices Dewey watching them anxiously from the corner of his eye. It's obvious that his middle-child is attempting to seem casually unaffected, but Scrooge knows better. Dewey’s wide-eyed gaze and eager, forward-tilted body tell Scrooge that Dewey is just waiting to be acknowledged, claimed. Scrooge obliges, meeting Dewey’s eyes and quirking him a gentle smile.

That’s all it takes for Dewey to come running. He flings himself hard into his uncle’s chest.

“An active volcano?” Dewey breathes as Scrooge pulls him in closer. “I could have been there. I could have helped.”

“You really couldn’t,” Scrooge mutters as he strokes the back of Dewey’s neck, the same soothing motion that had calmed Donald even in the fiercest of his rages. “I wouldn’t have wanted you there, lad,” he says softly, looking past Dewey to the ground. “I wouldn’t have put any of my family in danger if I’d have known.”

He notices Louie then, seated on the floor at Scrooge’s feet, leaning on his elbows halfway between his great uncle and Donald. It’s the perfect strategic location - Louie has an easy vantage point of the faces of his brothers and his uncles, without compromising his view of Webby or his position just outside arm’s reach of any of them. He’s pretending to play on his phone, but Scrooge knows, once again, that of all his boys, Louie is best at feigning nonchalance.

“Louie?” Scrooge calls softly, inviting his youngest into the pile.

"Eh,” Louie volunteers after a deliberate silence. “I knew you’d be alright.” He quirks a wink up to his Uncle and deadpans, “‘Scrooge McDuck, ‘tougher than the toughies’ and all.”

But Scrooge remembers how tightly those arms had wrapped around him, suffocating in their sincerity, recalls the tears that had dripped silently down Louie’s bill. Slowly, he extends his free wing, beckoning a bit with his fingers. Below him, Louie huffs, stuffs his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, and then, after a carefully calculated moment of hesitation, allows himself to be drawn into the pile. Scrooge squeezes him tight, maybe a bit tighter than the rest, because he knows without words that it’s Louie, most of all, who needs the physical reassurance that his family is whole, together, safe.

Beside them, Donald stiffens, watching the scene unfold warily from the corner of his eye. Scrooge is rarely so demonstrative with the boys. Scrooge decides that he doesn't care if Donald is surprised. He has his family back, and they are wonderful. The greatest.

He's going to enjoy them.

One by one, the boys snuggle into him, and Scrooge feels the last icy remnants of his decade of bitterness melt away. His entire family, or at least, that which remains of it, all in one room, and for the first time, Scrooge holds nothing back. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so at peace.

It’s a heady feeling, and it takes his breath from him.

Scrooge is shocked to feel Donald’s fingers grip his shoulder. “Launchpad is on his way with Mrs. Beakley,” his nephew says tonelessly, eyes focused pointedly at a sleeping Webby.

Scrooge is suddenly overcome with gratitude for his first boy, his steadfast, responsible, hardworking son, the one who’d first taught Scrooge the importance of family. Without stopping to acknowledge the decade of mistrust between them, Scrooge pulls Donald in for a hug, a sentiment he’s avoided for far too long. To his utter delight, Donald returns the gesture with only a soft squawk of surprise.

“Good,” Scrooge says softly. He’s aware of the boys’ questioning glances and he finds he doesn’t care. He loosens his hold on Donald, allowing him to straighten, but doesn’t quite release him from his grip. “We’ll have the whole family together for Christmas,” he muses. A thought occurs to him then, and he furrows his brow. “Where are we, exactly?”

Donald gasps, suddenly realizing that even he has no idea. From somewhere in the pile of ducklings, Huey’s voice volunteers, “RSCM, in Jakarta.”

“Jakarta,” Scrooge hums. He wonders how long Webby will need to recover here, or if she can be transferred back home for Christmas.

That thought is broken as Launchpad bursts through the curtains. “It was the closest place I could find for you, Mr. McDee,” he offers a bit apologetically, but then brightens with, “They even let me land on the trauma pad!”

“Twice,” a large porcine security guard interrupts. She seems bit put-out by the arrangement. Scrooge wonders if he should re-park the Sunchaser himself, or if it's even in any condition to be moved.

Either way, Scrooge decides to keep a close watch on the pig.

Mrs. Beakley pushes past them all, clinging to Webby’s bedside with tears of relief. Launchpad takes two careful steps behind her, leaning over Mrs. Beakley’s left side. Once he's reassured that Webby's okay, just sleeping, Launchpad turns back to Scrooge; shoulders slumped, his face crumpled in shame. “I came for you as soon as I saw the smoke, Mr. McDee, I swear. When I couldn’t find you on the beach, I started sweeping the island, but the ash in the air made it visualization difficult.”

“Well done, Launchpad,” Scrooge answers softly, reaching with his one free hand to squeeze Launchpad’s beefy fingers. “You did all you could, lad. You should be proud.”

Launchpad cracks a wobbly, blinding smile, then bursts into tears.

Scrooge decides it’s best to just let him go. He looks around at his family, all of them crammed in the tiny room or curled in his lap or at his feet or by his side, and smiles.

Ten minutes later they are shooed from the room. “Unfortunately,” the little nurse with the dark curly hair says in her most apologetic tone, “ The recovery room is for patients only, and we have more cases on the board for tonight.”

No amount of bluster and swag and mentions of Scrooge McDuck could convince her otherwise, so the McDucks find themselves shuffled into a cozy little room down the hall. The bed is larger here, with a large sofa that pulls out into another huge bed. Dewey and Launchpad are already hunting down the TV cabinet, delighted to find that while their XBox isn’t compatible with the early ’90’s television, they can still watch Launchpad’s Darkwing tapes on VHS.

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for Scrooge to realize that he's getting no sleep listening to the Darkwing Duck theme song that Dewey's playing on repeat. Deciding it's not worth ruining the boys' fun, Scrooge sneaks out of the room, wandering up and down the hospital halls in the dead of night. Once again, the hallways are eerily silent, long and narrow with low ceilings and a few windows strategically placed to show nothing but the roofs below and the little patches of the night sky above. A tree or two, maybe, if it’s daytime and the wind is right.

Scrooge feels a bit unsettled, as if he’s the unwitting protagonist in a B-rated horror film. Finding nothing that serves to occupy his mind - no temporal anomalies, no evidence of an underground cult of the afterlife, no hints at any untoward medical experimentation - just an average hospital on a holiday week, nearly empty.

Scrooge isn’t sure if the silence is a good thing or a bad thing.

He finds himself making his way back to Weibbigail’s recovery room. He’d avoided coming to visit her just as she’d been moved, with the blaring alarms and the heavy equipment and the nurses blustering in and out. He’d stood at the edge of his own doorway, propped against the frame, watching calmly with wings folded in front of him. Webby hadn’t seemed to be any more awake than she’d been in the recovery room, but the lopsided little mask was gone, and perhaps a couple of the IV bags.

Her room is empty now, and silent. Donald had been firm with the boys to let Webby rest, and so far, they’d obeyed, stopping by only to look in on her, containing their volume to whispered comments.

Scrooge pulls up a chair, the same sticky chair that he’d used in the recovery room. Somebody must have brought it here for him, he muses. He takes his post next to Webby’s left sidereal, moving softly in an effort not to wake Beakley, who is dozing on the sofa at the edge of the room. Above him, Scrooge notices the same sea of waveforms and readings that he can’t quite make sense of, the same blip-blip of the heart monitor. It seems a bit quieter here, and Scrooge decides that at its current volume, it could be a comforting sound. He allows himself to sink back into his chair, satisfied that they are keeping a vigilant eye on his niece.

He mustn’t have been as silent as he thought, though, because Webby stirs.

Scrooge holds his breath, clenching his fingers to keep from reaching for her cheek. She looks better now, not quite as pale, like she's in a more natural sleep.

Satisfied, he rises, turns to go.

“Unca Scrooge?”

Scrooge’s heart lurches in his throat. He whirls around, flicking on the overhead light.

Webby squints and giggles. “Whooooooooaaaaa,” she breathes softly, as if amazed at the sudden brightness.

Scrooge fumbles around for the dimmer switch, filtering the light into something more manageable when he finds it.

Beside them, Mrs. Beakley snores on.

Webby is still staring awestruck at the lightbulb that runs beneath her headboard. “Wild,” she whispers, reaching up to touch it.

Scrooge, still mostly frozen, notices that Webby’s stretching is pulling at the tube in her chest.

He catches her fingers quickly, pulling her attention away from the light. “Hi, Webby-lass!” he says softly, unable to contain his grin. “Let’s put these hands down here where it’s warmer, alright?” He pulls a blanket up, tucking Webby in up to her chin.

Webby grins at him. “Sure thing!” She immediately throws the cover to her knees and plants her hands beside her, as if to get out of bed.

“Ah, no,” Scrooge says, gently laying Webby back down. _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic._  “We’ve got to keep you in bed, Webbigail. You gave us quite the scare!’

_Where are those nurses when you need one?_

Webby furrows her brow but lies back obediently. “Oh,” she says softly.  

Scrooge collapses bonelessly into his chair, suddenly exhausted.  

“So….” Webby taps her finger to her chin. “I’m in the hospital.”

“You are,” Scrooge replies. He’d been warned about Webby’s trouble remembering. Scrooge really doesn’t want to go down that route. He folds his hands in his lap. “So…” he muses, unconsciously echoing Webby. “How do you feel?”

He kicks himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It’s an awful thing to ask. Any conversation that could lead to questions about how Webby got here or why she can’t remember would bring up Quackatoa, and Scrooge desperately does not want to be the one to explain Quackatoa.

To his surprise, Webby seems to be taking the question seriously. Dazed, she stares at the ceiling, appearing to be deep in thought.

Just when Scrooge thinks that Webby must’ve finally drifted off to sleep, she giggles. “Floaty!” she squeals. “That’s it; I feel floaty!”

Scrooge jumps at her voice. “Floaty?” he repeats, amused.

_What sort of drugs do they have her on?_

Webby nods hard enough that Scrooge is afraid she’ll make herself sick. “Uh-huh,” she continues. “Floaty! Like I could float right up to the ceiling and bounce there, or even into the sky if you’d let me!”

Scrooge grips her hand tightly. “I will not,” he growls.

Webby only laughs. “Figured that, Uncle Scrooge! I’ll just float here, in my bed.”

Scrooge notices that she doesn’t let go of his hand. Well, that’s just fine, because he’s not inclined to let go of her anytime soon, either.

Beside him, Webby is giggling again. “Floaty. Fuzzy. Funny. Frizzy….”

He listens in delight as Webby prattles on with her little game, satisfied that she seems to be in no pain and have no memory of the horrors of Quackatoa.

“Frazzled…. Frazzled…. Ffffff…..” Webby is running out of F words for her situation and seems close to tears.

Scrooge can think of a few good ones. “Flummoxed,” he supplies instead — anything to keep her happy.

Webby’s eyes blow wide, and she squeals in delight at his addition. “Exactly!" she cackles, and at that moment, she is so like his Webby that Scrooge can almost forget Quackatoa and the volcano and the surgery. It makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

He decides then and there to never ask her what she remembers. Science postulates that there’s no such thing as retrograde amnesia, but a traumatic memory may be repressed, especially in Webby’s case. Memories of Quackatoa may surface for her in dreams, or a strange feeling of deja vu, or even fully formed memories years after the fact.

Scrooge will fight those battles with her when they come, but for now, he owes it to Webby to keep the horrors at bay.

It hurts, though, listening as she rambles happily, high on a cocktail of opiates and livelier than he’s seen her in days, that their conversation in the cave, the words she’d needed to hear for so long, is gone, maybe forever.

Well then, Scrooge decides as he listens to his niece babble about Louie’s adventure in the netherworld of Goathool. He’ll just have to remind her again.

As many times as it takes.

They talk for a long time about nothing, Webby tripping balls, Scrooge enjoying every moment of it. Finally, after he’s told her the story of the chupacabra for the third time, Webby’s eyes drift closed, and Scrooge leans over, pulling the blanket carefully over the wires and tubing, to tuck her in. “I’m sorry, Webby-lass,” he whispers as he brushes her hair back from her ear.

“Ya said that already, Uncle Scrooge,” she mutters into the pillow.

“Yeah, well, I might say it again,” he whispers as he flicks the light out.

It’s only when Scrooge is in the hallway that he notices something.

Webby hadn’t called him “Mr. McDuck” once.

* * *

 

It’s early in the morning when Scrooge finally crashes in the empty dining hall.

He’d been too wired to sleep for a long time, too worried about Webby, too watchful of his family. But now, convinced as well as he can be that Webby is safe and the boys are asleep, the horrors of the past week resurge with a vengeance, and Scrooge is suddenly dead on his feet.

He wanders aimlessly until he stumbles upon a quiet spot near the closed cafeteria. Working quickly, Scrooge pushes two chairs together to make what the desperate might consider a bed, curls into a ball and lets oblivion take him.

* * *

 

Scrooge jolts awake to the acrid smell of coffee. There’s a crick in his neck from sleeping in a hard-backed hospital chair. He reaches up to rub it, wincing, when Donald lays a steaming cup at his side.

“You know I don’t drink that,” Scrooge grouses as he pops his neck against the back of the chair.

Donald shrugs, entirely unfazed by his Uncle’s early-morning irascibility. “Well, it’s a hospital, Uncle Scrooge, not a Hilton. No nutmeg tea here.” He drains his own cup with one deep swig and smacks contentedly.

Scrooge takes a good long look at him. It’s obvious that Donald still hasn’t slept much, but at least he’s caffeinated. More importantly, the worry lines in his brow and the tension in his shoulders seem to have eased some. The sight of Donald so relaxed seems to unwind something coiled tight in Scrooge’s belly, and he reluctantly takes the coffee, holding it up to his face and sniffing.

“Yuck!” Scrooge places the cup forcibly back on the table and turns wide-eyed to Donald. “How can ya drink this, lad? It’s like motor oil, or, or embalming fluid!”

“That’s why I drink it fast,” Donald answers with a sigh. “It’s more survival instinct than enjoyment.”

Scrooge feels a twinge of guilt at the image of twenty-four-year-old Donald chugging straight expresso just to have the capacity to keep track of three toddlers.

“Ah,” Scrooge starts awkwardly. Funny how being blind makes you see things you hadn’t before. There’s a lot he needs to say to Donald.

“Donald,” Scrooge starts again, planting his cane between his knees and looking up into Donald’s eyes. “I, I-” Blast this honesty thing. ”I’m sorry,” he manages. “I should have been there.”

Donald blinks, then slowly sinks down into the chair opposite Scrooge. He looks at his feet for a long moment, and then, finally, without raising his eyes, Donald whispers, “Thanks.”

The silence gives them both a few minutes to contemplate. For all that it’s just six words, that’s a heavy conversation for both of them.

Scrooge looks up at the clock. 3:23 am. “What day is it?” he wonders aloud.

“Oh, it’s Christmas,” Donald answers him, eager to turn the conversation to lighter topics. “I originally came to tell you that Webby’s back in her room now, and she’s been cleared to have liquids for today.” Donald shrugs. “Not exactly steak pie, but at least we’re all here for Christmas breakfast like you promised.”

Scrooge smiles. “Christmas in Indonesia,” he muses. “We’ve not done that before now, have we?”

Donald grins back. “Nope! It's a McDuck original.” He crosses the room to settle next to Uncle Scrooge.

They sit together in silence, hip to hip, not speaking, just being. Scrooge thinks it’s kind of nice.

This time, it’s Donald who breaks the silence. “The kids are all still sleeping,” he says. “It’s been a rough few days for them. I figured we could wait here until they get some rest.”

So Donald hadn't slept either, then. Scrooge nods, “Quite right,” he says softly.

Donald sighs heavily and then turns to face his uncle. “Just,” he starts awkwardly, twisting his fingers the way Scrooge does when he’s nervous, “Just tell me something.”

Scrooge furrows his brow, confused. “Anything,” he replies, and he means it.

“Did you find what you were looking for, on Quackatoa?” Donald asks softly, dropping his gaze to the green carpeted floor.

Scrooge jerks back in surprise. There’s no way Donald could have known about the map, no way that Webby would’ve -

But Donald cuts off his thoughts. “I’m not _actually_ an idiot, Uncle Scrooge,” he says with a sad, self-deprecating smile. “I know you went looking for something out there.” He shakes his head, clasps his hands together and turns away, looking out the darkened window.

Scrooge waits.

Donald sighs. “I just want to know if it was worth it,” he says, all of the pain and worry and panic of the past few days reflected clearly in his devastated expression. “What you found.”

Scrooge thinks of the wadded up treasure map that rests in the pocket of his cotton hospital gown. He thinks of Webbigail, his brilliant, brave, beautiful little girl, tiny and bundled up in a tangle of monitors and blankets. He thinks of his boys spread around his feet. He thinks wistfully of Della blazing off to the stars. He thinks of Donald, his first boy, his explosive, irritating, amazing, steadfast boy.

He remembers Webby’s voice.

_“It all felt, well, a bit unbalanced."_

Scrooge smiles a real smile this time. Peace like he’s never felt falls over his soul. He’s yearned for this all his life, ever since he’d been a tiny duckling working as a shoeshine for a dime, searched for it in every continent of the earth and on every ocean of the sea. He’d tried to lock it up in his bin, and again in his other bin. He’d dragged his family into his search, even losing one along the way. He’d looked bitterly to the stars, had shaken his fist at them, angry at the reminder of his failures.

_“Then you grabbed my hand, and I wasn’t falling anymore.”_

He’d missed the point entirely. It isn’t enough to sit back and watch the dance from afar. The universe gives, and the universe takes. It hurts, yes, but sometimes it’s good, too. The point was to join the dance.

It hurts far more not to.

Scrooge laughs. No more living in the past. No more counting his losses. No more desperate searching. No more.

Scrooge has found what he’d been missing.

He reaches for Donald’s hand and squeezes tight. “You know, lad, I think I did.”

Donald looks at him in question.

“I think I found equilibrium,” Scrooge says softly.

Donald gives him a funny look, like he’s not sure what to make of this new, hugging, laughing Scrooge. “Equilibrium?” he echoes, confused.

“Equilibrium,” Scrooge answers confidently. He rises swiftly to his feet, pulling a dazed Donald up with him. “What’s say we have Christmas breakfast with the kids?”

Donald smiles, shrugging at his Uncle’s strange mood, knowing that some battles are best unfought, and leads them toward Webby’s hospital room.

Everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for sticking with me. Wow, has this been a wild ride!   
> Some of my readers might find Scrooge to be a bit OOC in the last chapter. I wrote him that way on purpose. The whole point of this fic was for Scrooge to grow in a way that we haven't yet seen on the show. Also, I am in desperate need of a little fluff.  
> There's much less Webby here than I'd originally planned, but I kind of like that. Instead of a repeat of the conversation in the cave, we see into Scrooge's head - a Scrooge who is dedicated to do whatever it takes to keep Webby safe and happy. I'm sure he'll remind her of her place in the family many, many times.   
> And after yesterday... hooo, boy. I had to add some Team Uncle fluff.   
> Thanks for reading, and thank you again for being so patient with me!


End file.
